


Honey Bread

by ugliegay



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Christmas Fluff, Coffee Shops, Crying, Disabled Character, Drinking, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Major Character Injury, New Year's Eve, Party, Sharing a Bed, Trans Character, Trans Yuri Plisetsky, Underage Drinking, this isn't really a coffee shop au but they meet a a coffee shop so it counts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-09-16 19:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9286325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ugliegay/pseuds/ugliegay
Summary: Two years after retiring from figure skating, Viktor Nikiforov stumbles into an empty Starbucks and meets a very charming barista.- discontinued -





	1. i - first light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all. This here is a fic I thought of on a whim that's spiraled into so much more over the past couple of weeks. This is my first, real multichapter, and I really hope everyone likes it.
> 
> It's import to note that Viktor is disabled in this story. I wanted to get some sort of positive and real representation out there, even if it's just fanfic idk, if I make someone feel connected and related to my Viktor because of that, I will be very happy. I have consulted several disabled people in the process of writing this so as to get it as accurate as possible. Along the same lines, there's plot points that revolve around Yuuri's body image and his chubbyness as well as Yurio being trans. I hope that my writing can bring you guys joy and idk I'm getting emo for no reason, but yeah....
> 
> I hope y'all like
> 
> Edit: I don't have that big of a following on tumblr so if any of you like this and have a tumblr please reblog it [here](http://yooryonskates.tumblr.com/post/155797298882/honey-bread-1)... I'll give u my left kidney

-

part I

_Ring the bells that still can ring._

_Forget your perfect offering._

_There is a crack in everything,_

_It's how the light gets in_

_\- Leonard Cohen_

-

 

 

Detroit has a particular atmosphere during the winter months. The grays and whites get grayer and whiter. Blue Christmas lights decorate every tree, casting a solemn shadow on pedestrians ‘ faces. The cold settles into Viktor’s joints, his left knee, in particular, reminding him bitterly of his age and his failure.  
  
It's his second Christmas in Detroit since leaving Russia. The biting winds and fleeting snowfall feel like St. Petersburg. Beside him, as he walks along, a young, dewy-eyed Yuri Plitsetzki speaks fluent Russian, hugging a red and white sports jacket closer to his body.  
  
“Hmm, we should go there, Yuri,” Viktor says in English, pointing at the cozy Starbucks across the street.  
  
Yuri stares up at him, eyebrows knit in confusion. “You want to go to a coffee shop for dinner?” He pulls his cheetah print scarf over his mouth and rolls his eyes.  
  
“Of course, I could go for a vanilla bean right now,” Viktor comments.  
  
“It’s winter in Detroit and you want a frozen milkshake?” Yuri growls. “You're an idiot.”  
  
“It's not a milkshake if it comes from a coffee shop…”  
  
“I thought you were on a diet, fatso.”  
  
Viktor presses his lips into a tight smile. “You’re paying for your own drink.” He pushes past the pain in his knee and limps ahead of Yuri, crossing the street with him trailing behind.  
  
“Wait I was just kidding! You’re looking fitter than ever!” comes Yuri’s distant yells, the wind carrying his voice away. Viktor’s already in the shop when he hears muffled, “Viktor!”  
  
Warmth envelopes Viktor. Blues and grays melt into the soft, chocolate browns particular to coffee shops. A [soft acoustic song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SdSCCwtNEjA) sends serenades through the air. His knee hurts slightly less as he leans in the doorway to catch his breath.  
  
Viktor turns around to shoot a smirk at Yuri through the glass doors, who got held up by cars at the crosswalk. “I’m sorry about all the yelling, he’s got anger problems. Are you still open?” he asks to the figure he sees out of the corner of his eye.  
  
“S-sure,” a soft, slightly irritated voice says, “we’re just about to close, but I can keep it open for you and your friend.”  
  
Viktor shifts back around, his eyes closed in a cheery smile. “Acquaintance,” he corrects with a gloved finger raised.  
  
He opens his eyes just as Yuri bursts through the door.  
  
Viktor sees the barista for the first. His heart flutters in his chest.  
  
The man behind the counter is quite possibly the most beautiful man Viktor has ever laid eyes on. He’s warm and soft in every sense of being. His brilliant smile comes with round, blush tinted cheeks while his dark brown hair on his head struggles against the small hair tie that dares hold it up. His eyes, though rimmed with violet, shine behind blue frames while his full lips beckon Viktor forward. In his chest, his heart stutters while he struggles to find the right words to say.  
  
“Viktor, you’re staring,” Yuri mumbles, a disgusted grimace on his face.

And he doesn't stop staring. Viktor isn't the type to just outright flirt with random men he's just met, or at least, he isn't anymore. But the man before him is giving him heart palpitations. His tired eyes stare at Viktor, exasperation lined deep in his features, and in the back of Viktor's mind, there's a voice telling him to  _go on, take a chance for once. You don't have to stay hidden. Take a chance. Take a chance._

Viktor ignores Yuri. He removes his leather gloves and eyes the barista with burning intensity. “Thank you. We’ll be quick, I promise.” His promise is breathed through parted lips, almost as if he doesn't want to hold himself to that promise.  
  
“O-oh, you don’t have to. I’ll stay open for as long as you two need,” the man responds, glancing down at his hands.  
  
Viktor steps forward, willing his left leg not to limp. He almost makes the stiff walk to the counter until he trips. His hand flies out at the last minute and catches himself against the glass display case.  
  
The barista shrieks and leans forward to help him. “Are you okay, sir?!” he asks with widened eyes as he holds onto Viktor’s free hand.

His hand is warm against Viktor's, warding off the cold from the wintery night. From the point of contact, a fire spreads through Viktor until he can feel the bridge of his nose heating up.   
  
“Quite alright,” he breathes.  
  
He retracts his hand with reluctance and raises a finger to his chin. What should he order? Should he get his usual vanilla bean? What would the barista think? He should probably get something more sophisticated. That would impress him.  
  
“I’ll get a small vanilla bean,” Yuri interrupts his thoughts with a smirk.  
  
“A tall?” the barista asks.  
  
Yuri blows a blond tuft of hair from his face. “Yeah, whatever.”  
  
Viktor lowers his eyes. “Quit being rude, Yuri,” he scolds.  
  
The man behind the counter tenses up and begins to stutter out an apology. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. You can get your drinks for fr-”  
  
“No, no not you,” Viktor explains, an eyebrow raised in confusion. “I was talking to this little kitten behind me. You don’t think…”  
  
“Well, my name’s Yuuri too,” the man explains, glancing down to his hands.  
  
Viktor takes it upon himself to read the man’s name tag. “Indeed it is,” he confirms.  
  
Yuri groans, rolling his eyes. “Aw man, I can’t believe I have to share my name with…” He rakes his judgemental gaze down Yuuri’s form. “... him.”  
  
Viktor shoves Yuri to the side with a laugh. “Please excuse him, it’s past his bedtime. Is there anything here without caffeine in it?”  
  
Yuuri pushes his frames up his nose. “The vanilla bean doesn’t have caffeine in it. It’s milk and vanilla ice cream, sir” he informs, cheeks afire with blush.  
  
Viktor can feel Yuri’s triumphant stare boring into his back. “Yeah, yeah, nevermind. Tell you what. When’s your next shift?” Viktor asks.  
  
“Tomorrow morning, why?”  
  
“I’ll let you close and come back tomorrow, without him.”  
  
Yuri glowers. “I’m still here, you know.”  
  
Viktor pays no attention. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his wallet. Quickly, he finds a crumpled up receipt and a twenty dollar bill, producing a pen from his pocket. Yuuri’s lips spread into an infatuated smile as he realizes what Viktor’s doing. His hand slips into Yuuri’s. He brings it to his face and gives it a gentle kiss, transferring the money along with a piece of paper with his name and number scrawled on it.  
  
“This is for putting up with us,” he murmurs against Yuuri’s hand, blush tinging his cheeks and ears. “Call me, да?”  
  
Yuuri gulps and blinks his sparkling brown eyes. “Yeah…” he breathes.  
  
“Gross, let’s just go get McDonald's,” Yuri grumbles, sticking his tongue out and crossing his arms.  
  
  
Viktor rolls his eyes and shifts on his heel.   
  
“See you tomorrow,” he says, looking up at Yuuri through his eyelashes. “До свидания.”  
  
Then, the two whirl out of the empty Starbucks, Yuuri left behind with wide eyes and burning cheeks.  
  
-  
  
“Yuri! He already texted me back!” Viktor squeals at approximately 1:30 am inside his darkened apartment.  
  
The moonlight streams in through a crack in his curtains while his phone screen emits a soft blue glow. Yuri lies on the couch, sound asleep and undisturbed with his cat curled up against him. Makkachin, Viktor’s poodle, snores softly as he sleeps on the edge of the bed.  
  
He sighs happily and reads the text ten times over before he decides to save Yuuri into his contacts.

Yuuri  
**_Hello! This is Yuuri from Starbucks! Thanks for the generous tip…_**  
  
His moonlit smile shines brighter than the sun. He switches his keyboard from Russian to English. Fingers tap against the phone, rapidly typing and then retyping his reply.  
  
_Hi Yuuri_  
  
Viktor bites his lips and knits his brow. It's short and sweet, but not enough.  
  
_Hi Yuuri! Your welcome_  
  
No, that's awkward. Yuuri might not know what he's trying to say.  
  
_Hi Yuuri! Your welcome for the tip_  
  
Nope. This is stupid. He should just wait to text back until the morning when he is more aware of what he's typing.  
  
Then he gets another text.

Yuuri  
**_Your name is Viktor right?? That's what it says on the paper??_**  
  
Viktor’s eyes widen in realization. He never even introduced himself. He must've looked like a stupid flirt. No wonder Yuuri seemed so nervous.  
  
**_Oh yeah, I'm sorry about that, my names Viktor…._**  
  
He types his reply and hits send before reading it over. Then he sees his mistake.  
  
“Dammit,” Viktor hisses underneath his breath. If Yuuri didn't already think he was dumb, he sure would now.  
  
**_*name’s_**  
  
He runs a sweat-slicked hand through his hair, mentally noting how thin it feels between his fingers. It is nothing like Yuuri’s thick, dark brown locks. He seems younger than Viktor as well, with his round brown eyes (though they were rimmed with violet. Viktor should tell him to go to sleep) and unlined face. He can’t be any older than twenty-five, Viktor would bet money on it.

  
Yuuri  
**_Haha it’s fine… hey, I’m sorry but my shift starts at 5:30 so I’m gonna go to sleep, have a nice night and thanks again for the tip :)_** ** _  
_**  
He groans. He messed up already. He just knows it. A sigh escapes his mouth as he types his final reply.  
  
**_Sleep well Yuri, see you tomorrow ☺️_**  
  
His phone had autocorrected Yuuri’s name to “Yuri.” Viktor almost screams and tries to correct himself.  
  
**_*Yuri_** ** _  
_**  
A groan escapes his lips as he fights the urge to throw his phone against the wall.  
  
**_*YUURI_** ** _  
_****_  
_****_Sorry goodnight_** ** _  
_**  
So much for being smooth.  
  
Viktor shuts his phone off and places it on his nightstand. His foot nudges Makkachin awake. The poodle perks his head up at Viktor.  
  
“Do you think I scared him off, Makka?” Viktor asks quietly.  
  
Makkachin snuffs at the air and snuggles closer to Viktor’s left leg.  
  
Viktor lets out a puff of breath. His head meets the pillows and his eyes close.  
  
He sure hopes he didn’t scare Yuuri away. Life in Detroit as a retired professional skater had become quite lonely after awhile, with only Makkachin to keep him company. Yuri Plitsetzki showed up a couple weeks ago, reminding him bitterly of St. Petersburg and figure skating. Still, he couldn’t return home after that embarrassment two years ago...  
  
Viktor curls in on himself, willing himself to drift off to sleep before his thoughts can consume him.  
  
-  
  
Yuuri awakens with a start at approximately 4:25 am, just minutes before his alarm is set to go off. His groan is nearly loud enough to pull his roommate from a sound slumber, but alas, Phichit remains undisturbed. There’s no use in going back to sleep so Yuuri flips his legs from under the warm covers. He lets out a small squeak as the cold air bites into his bare skin and he begins to regret not having enough motivation to change into pajamas  
  
The window just above Phichit’s futon remains black with the velvet of night. Yuuri can’t see the stars here, not with all the lights and the smog from the city. The sky in Hassetsu was much clearer. A pang of homesickness stabs at his heart, remembering he might not have enough money to make an international call back home this week. He has to buy groceries this week, he promised Phichit.  
  
He slaps blindly at his nightstand, finding his phone and his glasses. His phone blares out an alarm tone in his hand. Yuuri fumbles with frames, putting them on crooked before he can see enough to shut the alarm off. Phichit continues snoring, despite the piercing noise.  
  
With the alarm stopped, he notices three texts from the mysterious, cute stranger, Viktor Nikiforov.

Viktor Nikiforov  
**_*Yuri_** ** _  
_**

**_*YUURI_** ** _  
_****_  
_****_Sorry goodnight_** ** _  
_**  
Yuuri giggles and covers his mouth. The smooth, flirty man from the store seems to be bested by autocorrect. He wonders how Viktor would look flustered; how he would look with red crawling up his cheeks and spreading to his ears, how he would look with his lips swollen and his blue eyes glistening with wonder, how he would look with his silvery hair tousled-  
  
His second alarm cuts through the pleasant daydreams and draws him back to the present, the cold, unforgiving reality of things.  
  
He guides himself to the shower and undresses, removing everything but his blue frames. His reflection stares back at him, raking his judgemental gaze down his own body. There’s no reason why Viktor Nikiforov, probably a model and/or angel, would show any interest in Yuuri. He’s a chubby, Japanese kid with dorky glasses, nothing special really.  
  
Craning his neck around in the mirror, he inspects how round his face has gotten. He can't make out his jawline anymore.  
  
He throws his glasses to the side and lets his reflection become a blur.  
  
He showers as fast as humanly possible.The rest of his routine comes and goes, Yuuri’s mind set on autopilot through every basic task. He skips breakfast, as he does most days, and heads out the apartment door by 4:50 am. The train into the city leaves by 5:00.  
  
The train ride is just as solemn, yet peaceful. Night has begun to recede and the pinks and yellow of morning tinge the horizon. His brown eyes turn a shade of honey under the emerging rays of sun. His pupils lazily focus on his Instagram feed, scrolling as his headphones pour [calming piano sounds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0BP5q5drYMg) into his ears.  
  
His stop comes along much too soon. Train rides seem to be his only solace these days. It’s the calm before the storm, the time where he can relax before a stressful day begins. As soon as he steps off the train, the peace will be shattered.  
  
He’s right of course. On his way into the shop, he bumps into at least five people trying to shove his Metro card into his pocket. Then, just a block from work, he realizes he had forgotten a hair tie. His manager is going to kill him.

He’s frowning and pushing his hair back with his hands when he spots a figure leaning against his building.  
  
A superbly dressed figure. One with silver hair and piercing blue eyes.  
  
Yuuri smiles. It's Viktor Nikiforov.  
  
Viktor stands outside the building, a leashed brown poodle sitting at his feet. He’s clutching a paper bag and gazing at Yuuri with a smile. His scarf whips in the turbulent wind. Cold colors his complexion pink.  
  
“Ah, good morning!” Viktor says, his accent curling around his words.  
  
Yuuri feels his cheeks go red with every step forward. “V-viktor,” he stutters, brushing his hair from his face, “what are you doing here?”  
  
“I figured it would be a bit busy if I didn't get here early enough,” Viktor explains. He leans down to pet his poodle with a warm smile on his face.  
  
The dog reminds Yuuri of his own poodle back in Hasetsu, with the same mocha colored fur and rounded eyes. He bends over to pet the dog, scratching just behind his ears, the way his puppy used to love.  
  
“Who’s this big guy?” Yuuri asks, fluffing up the fur behind his ears.  
  
“This is Makkachin,” Viktor says looking at Yuuri with shining eyes. “Makka, meet Yuuri.”  
  
Makkachin thus takes this as an open invitation to cover Yuuri’s face in slobbery kisses. Yuuri giggles and lets the poodle get as many licks in as he can, much to Viktor’s embarrassment.  
  
Viktor yanks back gently on the leash. “Down, Makka! he commands.  
  
Obediently, the dog sits back on his haunches, giving Yuuri the chance to wipe the slobber off his face. He pushes his hair from his face and smiles at Viktor.  
  
“Weird question,” Yuuri says, “do you happen to have a hair tie on you?” His voice falters, pupils casting to the ground as he feels the embarrassment rise in him.  
  
Viktor responds with a reassuring flash of teeth and a small chuckle. “Of course. Living with the other Yuri means having hair ties on you always,” he laughs. “Here, hold this.” He extends the brown paper bag toward Yuuri, who accepts it without complaint.  
  
Inspecting the bag, he looks at Viktor with a confused brow. “What’s in here?”  
  
Viktor frees a hair tie from his left wrist. “Ah yes, that’s Тула Pryanik,” he explains. “They call it ‘honey bread,’ It’s like a Russian…” He trails off and looks to the sky, snapping his fingers so as to jog his thoughts. “It’s, um, what Americans call um…”  
  
There’s a short pause before his face brightens up with an answer. “Gingerbread! Forgive me... my English isn’t always perfect.”  
  
“Oh no, don’t apologize! I know how you feel,” Yuuri replies as they exchange the hair tie for the brown bag.

“Really?” Viktor asks with a look of genuine confusion.

  
Yuuri puts the hair tie in his mouth and begins to bundle his hair into a small ponytail at the top of his head. “Oh yeah. I forget words all the time. I mostly speak English these days, though. The only time I ever talk in Japanese is when I call my mom.” His words are muffled by the hair tie but Viktor understands him, nodding in agreement.  
  
They make strong eye contact, blue meeting brown in some sort of understanding. They had some common ground. It’s a good start.  
  
The moment ends when the front section of Yuuri’s hair slips out of the tie. Both Viktor and Yuuri giggle, their frozen breath intermingling between them.  
  
“You want me to help with that?” Viktor offers.  
  
Yuuri blushes and averts his gaze to the side. “S-sure.”  
  
Again, they exchange the bag and the hair tie. Their hands touch for a quarter, but it feels like minutes to Yuuri. He turns around, giving Viktor full access to his head. Blush crawls up his cheeks, only deepening in color when he feels long slender fingers comb through his hair.  
  
“You can have a pryanik if you want. They’re fresh from a Russian bakery by my apartment.” Viktor is close enough that Yuuri can feel the other man’s breath against his scalp. It sends a shiver down his spine. He rifles through the bag and picks out a smaller bread to distract himself.  
  
“Done,” Viktor declares, spinning Yuuri back around by his shoulders.  
  
When he sees his handiwork, Viktor’s gaze softens. “You look stunning,” He comments, a pinkish glow coming to his cheeks.  
  
Yuuri is sure his face has melted by now. “Thanks,” he responds, cradling the pryanik in his hands.  
  
Makkachin begins to whine and paw at Viktor’s side left side. “Ah yes, forgive me. Me and Makka have somewhere to be…”  
  
Yuuri feels a pull of sadness at his heart. “Oh, okay…”  
  
He glances to the side, rocking on his heels before a random thought passes through his head. _Kiss his cheek! Kiss his cheek!_ the impulse screams at him, only making Yuuri more nervous. Viktor’s about to turn on his heel when he finally acts on it.  
  
He rushes forward and meets Viktor’s cheek with a peck. Just as swiftly, he backs himself down from his toes and looks to the ground with his face burning.  
  
“Thank you,” he mutters, daring to meet Viktor’s wide eyes.  
  
He scuttles into the building before Viktor has the chance to say anything.  
  
A breath passes through his lips, one that he hadn’t realized he was holding. Yuuri smiles to himself, clutching the honey bread close to his chest. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s felt this. A mixture of fear and anxiety combine with something warm in his chest, something he thought was long dead.  
  
He sits himself at an empty table and bites at the pryanik. An [acoustic ballad](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2-y9564ZC00) floats through the air, meaning his co-worker has already turned on the music. She’s busy at work cleaning the latte machine when she notices Yuuri. “What’s got you all blushy, Katsuki,” her voice calls out over the whirl of machinery.  
  
Yuuri takes a final bite of the honey bread and stands up. “Someone,” he responds, a smirk on his face.  
  
Then his phone buzzes with a notification.  
  
**_Are you doing anything tonight?_ ** **_  
_ **  
Yuuri sighs happily and begins to type out his response. “Definitely someone,” he breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a comment or a kudos if you want to idk


	2. i - daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Viktor go on their first date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all!! Here's the second installment of this fluffy fic in which you all requested. Thank you so much for your continued support and honestly, ilysm
> 
> If you have a tumblr, it would mean the world to me if you reblogged this chapter, [here](http://yooryonskates.tumblr.com/post/156416574737/honey-bread-2). <3
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

“Tonight” turns into “Friday night” and their quick, brief exchanges, turn into a conversation so long that Viktor can’t even scroll back up to the beginning.

The agonizing wait from Monday night to Friday night is only soothed by the _ping_ of his phone whenever he receives a text from Yuuri. They discuss many things over the course of four days, including but not limited to the following: Makkachin, stupid American people, stupid people in customer service, Yuuri’s annoying manager, whether or not Yuuri should cut his hair or not, Viktor’s favorite foods, Yuuri’s family, Yuuri’s old dog, music tastes, Viktor’s horrible taste in music, Viktor’s insistence that cheesy Russian pop music is actually really good, ect.

But they don’t really discuss the important things. Viktor’s reluctance to open up remains as strong as ever, even throughout the rough week he has. Somehow, he manages to keep himself from sharing his feelings about the therapist appointment he goes to. He doesn’t dare mention his joblessness, the reason for said joblessness…

And he doesn’t even ponder about figure skating. That conversation is for later. Much later.

Pathetically, he doesn’t do much besides text Yuuri and the other Yuri isn’t impressed.

Thursday night, over a dinner of Mac n’ Cheese and Sprite, courtesy of Viktor himself, his phone _pings_ for the twentieth time within the hour.

“Do you ever stop fucking texting him? It’s so pathetic,” Yuri comments through a mouthful of noodles. “This Mac n’ Cheese is shit, by the way. How did you manage to screw that up?”

“You could’ve helped cook,” Viktor comments lazily, eyes on his screen as he scrolls through his Twitter feed.

Yuri only rolls his eyes and shovels more noodles into his mouth. “Otabek called and I had to answer. International calling is a bitch,” he offers as an explanation.

Viktor raises his eyes and cocks his brow, but says nothing. His attention directs back at his phone with the sound of yet another notification.

Then he outwardly cheers.

“Finally!” he cries.

Yuri briefly chokes at the sudden burst of noise. Wide-eyed, he coughs and breathes in before he’s well enough to wheeze, “What’d he say?”

Viktor slips off of the barstool he’d been sitting on and makes his way around the counter. A grin is apparent on his face.

“Yuuri’s finally agreed to go out with me!” he announces, before losing his footing and slipping against the counter.

Yuri only continues to eye the man as if he had sprouted two heads. He doesn’t make a move to help Viktor. “That’s… good.”

Viktor pays no attention to the tone Yuri has developed. He launches into daydreams of the perfect date, spinning on his uninjured leg with a smile that could not be broken.

“Did you forget that you have to go the hospital tomorrow?” Yuri reminds Viktor, setting his empty bowl in the sink.

The grin falters into a slight frown and his brow furrows. “... Yeah.... that.”

Of course, he forgot. He wouldn’t be Viktor Nikiforov if he didn’t forget the occasional important event, but said event could mean many things. Firstly, he would have to save the date for the evening, whisking away all of Viktor’s dreams of a sunlit afternoon in the park. Secondly, a visit to the hospital usually meant feelings of crushing depression, nostalgia, and helplessness all at once.

He gets to bed early that night. It’s 9 pm when he wishes Yuri goodnight and snuggles up to Makkachin. Somewhere, in the expanse of the apartment, Yuri is facetiming a friend, laughing about something. The television in the living room whispers soft words, the volume low enough so that he cannot make out the words.

Two things are going to happen, one good and the other bad. Viktor supposes that’s how his life has always been; good events couple with the grave horrors of the world. In his experience, he’s never been completely happy,  without it being paired by a constant sadness; not for a very long time at least.

As he sinks into the depths of sleep, he realizes one thing. For the first time in forever, he longs for happiness again. Perhaps his happiness will take the form of a certain starry-eyed, black haired boy. Perhaps not.

His last thought before unconsciousness is a silent prayer; a prayer to let Yuuri be his happiness.

-

Viktor is going to be late.

He has exactly thirty minutes until he is to pick up Yuuri and he still hasn't moved from the couch. Instead, he keeps himself fixated on the pain pulsing through his left leg, staring at it with an intense gaze. Pinching the bridge of his nose and forcing his eyes shut, he lets out a groan.

He looks like a mess, he already knows. His hair remains unkempt from his windblown walk with Makka earlier that morning. He still hasn't brought himself to change out of the clothes he had worn to the hospital.

Then there's what his doctor had given him.

It was the newest installment to his 'recovery.' He had thought a knee brace was bad and his meds were even worse, but now he has to walk around with a big bulky black cane to ease the pressure on his knee.  

The burn of tears pinches at the corner of his eyes.

Two years ago he had been on top of the world, quite literally; almost a dozen gold medals under his belt. He had swept the World's Championship with a four quad program. He had been able to dazzle an audience, enthrall the hearts of men and women every time he set foot on the ice. Now he can't even walk properly without assistance. It frustrates Viktor to his very core, his tears burning hot with anger.

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn't notice Makkachin approaching. The dog leaps up to Viktor and begins to lick at his wet cheeks. He yelps when Makka’s back paws dig into his stomach, the other two pressing onto his chest. A wet, slobbery tongue makes multiple strokes up Viktor’s face. Cries of protest turn into sniffling giggles. He smiles and scratches Makkachin behind the ears.

“At least I have you, Makka,” he says, his voice hoarse with tears.

“You have me too, asshole!” comes the irritated call of Yuri Plitzetski. “Get up off the couch and stop crying. You have a date to get ready for.”

Viktor tears his eyes off Makkachin and looks to his doorway where Yuri stands, a frown on his face. “Yuri, I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.”

“Yeah, I know but thank God I am. You would’ve stayed moping in the couch and ditched out on that guy,” Yuri replies, approaching the couch. “Seriously, get up you look like crap.”

“I wouldn’t have ditched…”

“Yes, you would have. Now, let go. Get up. We don’t have all day.”

“Yuri…”

Yuri ignores his words of protest, pushing Makkachin away and stripping Viktor of his blanket.

“Yuri it’s cold!”

“Yeah you live in Detroit and it’s winter. Quit being a drama queen.”

Viktor gasps in mock offense, earning another eye roll from Yuri.

He then sits himself up, sniffling. Leaning at the edge of the cushion, he stares at his left leg. His face shrivels up. His eyes fall to the floor.

“W-what do I tell him?” he asks. “He doesn’t know about…”

Yuri’s expression softens.

“You tell him…” he starts, the sentence dying on his tongue.

Viktor’s tired eyes meet Yuri’s. In the dim light, they’ve gone a dull greenish gray, shrouded by his blond tufts of hair. Still, they shine with rage and admiration all at once.

Yuri lowers his brow, bending to take Viktor’s hand in his. He forces the man up with a grunt. “You tell him you’re Viktor fucking Nikiforov, five-time figure skating world champion! Tell him you almost lost your leg because you were too dedicated and if he thinks badly of you because you limp when you walk then he’s a shallow minded asshole!”  

Viktor blinks at the outburst. “... But I can’t even skate anymore,” he breathes.

And it’s true. He can’t skate, the new cane being a constant reminder of that not-so-fun fact. He really hadn’t been able to grasp his own identity without the ice at first; he still can’t. How would anyone else ever be able to?

Yuri rolls his eyes. “So what, you’re still a legend in the world of figure skating. You swept gold in every event you competed in for five years. No bum leg is gonna take that away from you.”

There’s a moment of silence, filled only by the sound of Viktor’s sniffling. Then he envelopes Yuri in a shaking hug. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The beginnings of a smile twitch at the corner of his lips while tears begin to wet Yuri’s jacket.

Yuri hugs back for a good, whole second before he struggles to push Viktor out of his grasp. “Get off of me! You smell, old man,” he grumbles.

Viktor breaks away and shoots Yuri a watery smile. “Thank you…”

“Yeah whatever, baldy. Don’t mention it. Now go shower.”

Viktor chuckles, limping toward the bathroom.

“And hurry up! I need to get some makeup on you. Those under eye circles are horrendous!”

-

For once, Yuuri isn’t really that nervous for his first ~~date~~ night out with a crush.

Phichit being there in their cramped bathroom doing his makeup while Yuuri struggles with his hair helps. He keeps singing obnoxiously loud over [the music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLPmLHSKvCA) he has playing in an attempt to make Yuuri laugh. No doubt, their neighbors will be complaining if Phichit doesn’t stop.

“So, where’s he taking you?” he calls out over the pop song blaring from his phone.

Yuuri stares intently at his own reflection on his phone screen. He has it plopped on the shelf across from himself while he works pomade into his hair.

“There’s this Christmas market downtown. I don’t really have any money besides my tips but I think it’ll be fun anyway,” Yurri informs. “Do you have any clear hair bands?”

“Yeah, second shelf, middle drawer,” Phichit replies, leaning closer to the mirror and applying shimmery eyeshadow. “Is he like rich or something?”

“I think so. I swore that his gloves had a Chanel symbol on them.”

He snags a clear hair tie and pushes most of his hair to the back of his head. His ties it off and begins to slick pomade through the front section. When he’s happy with the look he does a twirl for Phichit to see his full outfit.

Phichit stares at Yuuri through the mirror, brows lowering. “You need to do something about those under eye circles, especially because you’re wearing contacts instead of glasses.”

Yuuri pales. “Are they really that noticeable?”

“Yes,” Phichit says bluntly. “Come here. I’ll fix you up real nice for your rich boyfriend.”  

Yuuri blushes as he steps toward Phichit, who meets him with a makeup brush in hand. Phichit tilts his face up and grabs him by the jaw. The soft sweep of powder tickles his undereye while he stutters out a reply. “I just met him, Phichit…”

“Yuuri you’ve been talking about him from the moment I got home. You texted me a paragraph about his eyes this morning. If you aren’t dating by the end of the month, I’d be surprised.”

“I can’t help that his eyes are stunning!”

Phichit chuckles. The tickle of dry pigment ceases, Pichit stepping aside to let Yuuri look at himself in the mirror.

Yuuri surprisingly likes his appearance. Whatever Phichit did had to have been magic. His face is now glowing and the purple under his eyes is completely gone. A gleam of light catches on his cheekbones. His hair stays slicked back, the small ponytail sticking up behind him.

“How about my outfit? Do you think this is fine?” he asks just as his phone buzzes.

“Amazing, considering that’s my bomber jacket you’re wearing.” Phichit’s response falls on deaf ears. Yuuri has already rushed to check the notification.

Viktor Nikiforov

**_I just left I’ll be there in ten minutes_ **

Yuuri yelps as he types a response. “He’s gonna be here soon Phichit!”

**_Great!! I can’t wait!!_ **

Phichit grabs him by the shoulders. “Yuuri, calm down. You’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

Too late. Yuuri is in panic mode, checking himself over in the mirror with frantic flits of his pupils.

“God Phichit I’m wearing a pink jacket whatifhethinksit’stoogay-”

“Yuuri, you’re two men going on a date. It would be gay, regardless.”

He’s now walking in circles, pulling at the curled edges of his hair. “-and really, I’ve put on like twenty pounds. He’s like this tall, muscular twig! Why would he even want someone like me?! I still don’t understa-”

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Phichit says, grasping Yuuri by the shoulders, “he won’t think you’re too fat. He won’t think you’re ‘too gay.’ You’re definitely overthinking this. Just breathe.”

“I am breathing, Phichit!”

“I'll call your mom.”

“Phichit!”

Yuuri’s phone buzzes.

Viktor Nikiforov

**_I’m here_ **

He freezes, breath quickening in his chest. “Oh my God, Phichit. He's here!”

Viktor Nikiforov

**_Sorry for being so early. The other Yuri showed me a shorter route._ **

Yuuri rushes out of the bathroom and straight to the window. He lets out a shriek when he sees a figure standing outside a car. More importantly, he sees a bouquet of flowers.

“He brought flowers, I didn't get him anything I'm-”

Phichit grabs his shoulders once again. “You. Will. Be. Okay. Repeat that back to me.”

Yuuri sighs. “I will be okay.”

“Yes, you will.” Phichit smiles and pats him on the back. “Now, go to your rich Russian boyfriend. And be home before one, you have work tomorrow…. And be safe.”

He emphasizes his last point by producing a small foil packet and slipping it into Yuuri’s pocket. Deep blush crawls up Yuuri’s cheeks.

“Phichit…” he groans through his teeth.

“Just in case.” Phichit winks with a cheeky smile.

“I just met him!”

“Better safe than sorry, Yuuri,” he explains. “Enjoy yourself tonight. You deserve it.”

Yuuri gulps, letting out a nervous, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Yuuri turns away and rolls his shoulders back. With one last puff of breath, he grabs his phone and heads out the door, barely hearing Phichit bid him good luck.

-

Viktor doesn't know whether it's the cold or Yuuri that's making his breath short. He thanks his lucky stars for Yuri’s suggestion of pink roses, because they match his date’s jacket perfectly.

Yuuri’s absolutely stunning. The pink compliments his deep rosy complexion while his black turtleneck outlines his soft, round face. He's traded his blue frames for contacts, putting his beautiful brown eyes on display for all to see. Slim black jeans hug his thighs while a pair of black rubber boots completes the look.

Viktor then becomes painfully aware of his own sense of fashion. His typical white button up and trench coat combo seems outdated compared to Yuuri’s fresh, young style. He pulls his scarf closer as the cold makes his leg throb.

“Yuuri, you look beautiful!” he says, exhaling with an infectious smile.

The look Yuuri gives him is enough to make him melt. He extends the bouquet of roses to Yuuri.

“Here, these are for you,” he breathes, never breaking eye contact.

Yuuri accepts them. He closes his eyes (his long eyelashes sending shadows down his cheeks) and inhales the sweet, fragrant smell of roses. “T-thank you,” he murmurs, “they’re gorgeous.”

Viktor can barely hold back the splitting grin that threatens to overcome his face. He can't help it. Yuuri is overwhelming. Yuuri is beautiful.

But then Yuuri decides the melt his heart even more by breaking one of the roses from its stem and tucking it in Viktor’s ear. They both laugh while Yuuri’s eyes shine with an infinite and unreadable emotion.

Something inside of Viktor still eats away at him. He knows he’s going to have to move soon, which means using his cane. A lump begins to form in Viktor’s throat, but he swallows it down and tightens his grip on the cane.

And he walks, two steps to the side to open the door. Yuuri’s eyes, of course, fly right to the limp in his leg and the black metal in his hand. Instead of the expected confusion or rejection, a look of concern crosses his face.

“Viktor are you okay?” he asks, a twinge of panic laced in his voice. “Did something happen to you today?”

“Oh no,” Viktor says, casually keeping a calm exterior. “I um, I need it to help me walk…”

Yuuri’s eyes fall to the sidewalk. “Oh, okay."

They both move in silence, Yuuri toward the door and Viktor around the front of the car. He stops just before they both are about to get in and meets Yuuri with a solemn gaze.

“It's permanent,” he says. “I have a permanent limp.”

And then Yuuri does the most extraordinary thing.

“Okay,” he says. He shrugs and pops into the car without missing a beat.

It’s a relief, a godsend to Viktor. In his two years since he had injured his leg, Yuuri’s reaction is the best out of them all. Yakov had been distraught, his rink mates had cried, his fans had offered their endless and dedicated support. Strangers on the street like to stare. The more ignorant ones think that they have a right to ask him questions, to know just how or why he walks slower than everyone else. But Yuuri just shrugs and gets into the car with a bright smile on his face.

Viktor laughs and gets into the driver side. “Okay,” he repeats back to Yuuri, sticking the key in the ignition.

“The other Yuri told me that I should warn you about my driving skills,” he informs just as the car jerks forward.

Yuuri’s face becomes plastered with concern. Viktor works his way out the spot (even though it’s not very tight) and starts on his not so smooth drive to the market. They screech to a halt at the first intersection, Yuuri emitting a small scream.

“Oh, c’mon I can't be that bad,” Viktor laughs, drumming gloved hands at the wheel.

Yuuri only exhales, gripping his phone with white knuckles. Viktor looks over and offers his hand to Yuuri.

“I could hold your hand if you're nervous,” he says with a wink.

Yuuri’s eyes go wide. “I’d prefer if you kept both hands on the wheel,” he squeaks, earning a laugh from Viktor.

Yuuri’s face melts into a giggle at the realization that Viktor had been joking. His cheeks flare up with pink, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing, “Oh my god, I’m sorry.”

“It's alright,” Viktor chuckles.

Too late does he remember that he is indeed behind the wheel. He's pulled from his stare at Yuuri’s beautiful eyes by the loud and abrasive honk the car behind them.

“Shit!” Viktor curses, eyes flying back to the road.

Yuuri jumps a bit, startled.

“Sorry, sorry. I never really used to drive a lot back in Russia. I’m not the best.”

“I-It’s okay, Viktor. I don't even have a license yet. My mom did all the driving when I lived in Japan.”

Viktor’s face warms at the sound of his name of Yuuri’s tongue.

“How long have you been in America then?” Viktor asks.

Yuuri looks to the roof, eyes squinting in confusion. “Um… Six years. I came here when I was eighteen to get my degree. I just graduated last year.”

Viktor nods. “I came here two years ago after retiring.”

Yuuri’s eyes go wide. “Retiring?” he asks. “How old are you?”

Mentally, Viktor scolds himself. Another thing he forgot to mention. He's sure Yuuri has noticed that he's older.

“I’m twenty-seven. I'll be twenty-eight on Christmas Day,” he informs in an even tone.

Four years is not that big of an age gap. Viktor sees Yuuri visibly relax.

“Why are you already retired? You're still young.”

It's Viktor’s turn to tense up. He parts his lips, in an intention to speak, but he swallows it with a shaky breath. He can't change the subject, Yuuri’s too invested.

He squeezes his eyes closed.

“I, um, I used to skate,” he starts. “Figure skate. On a professional level.”

There's a beat of silence, only filled with the sound of their nervous breath.

“I’ve been to three Olympics, competed around the world. I was the reigning world champion for five years in a row.”

He hears Yuuri’s gasps of surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, but,” he inhales sharply, “the ice...

He remembers everything all at once. The smell of iron, crimson meeting white as gasps of pain escape his lips. Georgi's skate rips into the muscle on his leg, logging itself from the back of his knee down to his calf. Cold, such cold tearing through the barrier of his gray sweats and assaulting every part of his body, especially his throbbing left knee.

“...I had to retire after permanently injuring myself two years ago….”

It isn't until Yuuri’s gentle touch brushes his shoulder does he realize he's white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Viktor,” Yuuri’s soft voice calls him back to reality, grounds him to the Earth. The beginning twinges of a headache prick the back of his head from grinding his teeth so hard. He unclenches his jaw.

Yuuri’s fingers are warm. They shake against the coarse fabric of his coat, but they're there. They don't leave until Viktor has slackened his jaw and rolled his shoulders back.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m not used to talking about it.”

Yuuri’s gaze melts. He pushes the bouquet of roses closer to his chest and shifts in his seat so his upper body is facing Viktor.

“That’s alright,” Yuuri whispers. “I didn't mean to pry so much. You don't have to talk about it if it upsets you.”

“Don't apologize, Yuuri. If it's alright with you I don't want to talk about it anymore…."

“Of course! That's fine!” Yuuri responds all too swiftly. His words are gutted by the sound of nervous breath and an eager to please tone. It doesn't irritate Viktor, though, only ensnaring his heart even more.

They're almost to the market but Yuuri launches into a tale of a hectic day in the business of customer service. He tells the story of the mom with five kids in tow who ordered a pumpkin spice latte with nine shots of espresso, the racist old man who had treated both him and his coworker like shit, the windblown hipster who had asked for his number, only for him to tell her he had a date later that night. The last one makes Viktor smile smugly, lifting an eyebrow at Yuuri and laughing when his cheeks color pink with blush.

Just three blocks down from the market, Viktor can already hear the thrum of a guitar and a rich voice singing a remixed version of a Christmas carol. People mill around the sidewalk, holding hands and laughing. He remembers Christophe inviting him to the very same market just last year, politely declining the offer in favor of watching bad lifetime movies and snuggling with Makkachin. Now, he regrets it.

The lights are wonderful, casting aside every lingering thought of figure skating.  They dazzle and shine, coloring Detroit in a rainbow of warm reds and yellows. The drone of gray and blue fade to the back. The city in which Viktor has chosen to call home reminds him of his real home for the first time in years. He exhales a breath he didn't know he had been holding and glances over at the equally entranced Yuuri.

“It's beautiful,” he breathes, brown eyes turning sepia under the red lights.

Viktor smiles and puts the car in park. He unbuckles with a jovial energy he hadn't felt for a very long time. In a rush of excitement and recklessness, he ~~forgets~~ forgoes using his cane and dashes out of the car to open Yuuri’s door for him.

“Shall we?” he flirts, taking Yuuri by the hand.

Yuuri sets his roses on the dashboard and stands up out of the car. Viktor swiftly takes care of the parking meter and off the pair go, disappearing into the vast crowd.

Viktor ignores the stabbing pain in his knee, letting it fade to the back while he focuses on the feeling of Yuuri’s hand in his. He's immediately taken by a sugary smell coming from the market, only a single block away now.

“Wow!” Viktor exclaims at the sight. “Is that taffy I smell?”

Yuuri’s eyes widen in excitement. “I think it is!”

Viktor laughs and begins the push through the crowd. Limp be damned; he was going to find the source of the smell and buy Yuuri the biggest bag of taffy he could find.

Finally, the two are there. The crowd has thinned to spread out over the square, lined with shops and stalls and restaurants that glimmer and shine. In the center, a tall pine stands above the scene, a gigantic star at the very type to spread light over the whole square. At the base, a group of folksy looking men and women sing [an acoustic version of ‘Carol of the Bells.’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vkcWMNffodY)

“Viktor, this is amazing! I didn't even know this existed downtown!”

Viktor doesn't skip a beat. He's already found the source of the sweet smell and is tagging Yuuri towards a stall labeled ‘Sue’s Sweets.’ A plump young woman with pink hair is twirling a caramel apple in her hand and selling to an older couple. His mouth already drools at the sight of the chocolates and caramels behind the glass. Yuuri has his eyes set on a bag of colorful looking candies.

“And what would you fine gentlemen like today?” the woman asks, smiling in amusement at Viktor’s face nearly pressed up against the glass.

“Oh my, I don't know,” Viktor says with a dramatic flip of his hair. “Yuuri, what looks the best to you?”

Yuuri blushes. His eyes return to the colorful candies, asking the woman, “What are those?”

She grabs the bag and holds it up for both of them to see. “These are salt water taffies from the New England coast! They come in a variety of flavors and colors! You can get this bag for ten dollars!”

Yuuri’s immediately sold as well as Viktor. The bag is about the size of a small child and would last at least a month. They both pull out their wallet to pay, but Viktor beats Yuuri to it. He pulls out a (sleek, black) credit card with a cheeky grin.

“You take card, да?”

“Of course!”

Soon enough, they're walking along, Yuuri clutching onto the taffy bag. They take turns sampling the flavors, laughing because Viktor seems to keep picking the not-so-pleasant types. He pops an orange candy in his mouth, saying, “This one's going to be good this time!”

Yuuri raises his eyebrow in doubt, doubling over in laughter when Viktor’s face scrunches up and his eyes go wide.

“Why would anyone, ever make mango taffy?!” he exclaims, gracefully spitting up the orange ball of taffy back into its wrapping.

Viktor limps to the nearest garbage can. The disgusted look is still apparent when he returns to Yuuri, having disposed of that awful candy.

Yuuri offers his hand. Viktor takes it. They move along, among the crowds, looking around with much curiosity. But Viktor does much more than just see.

He feels more than he’s ever felt for a great deal of time. There’s a warmth in his heart coming from his gloved clinging onto Yuuri for dear life. He’s happy, even with the taste of overly sweet mango on his tongue and the stab of pain in his left knee.

And when Yuuri flashes a smile, framed by his gorgeous, full lips and his chubby, pink cheeks, Viktor smiles back.

 

“Yuuri,” Viktor breathes, after a short beat of silence. “Thank you.”

He takes Yuuri’s hand to his mouth and places the softest of kisses on his knuckles.

"For what?" Yuuri asks, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

Viktor decides not to answer because he's not very certain what he'd reply. He couldn't excatly just teel Yuuri, _Oh, thanks for taking me out on a Friday night that I'd usually spend alone. By the way, I have distanced myself from everyone and anything and giving you my number had been completely on a whim and I wasn't even sure I'd get this far, so yeah! Thanks!_

Therefore, he decides upon a simple:

 

“You are so beautiful, Yuuri…” Viktor trails off and looks to the sky in confusion. Does he really not know Yuuri’s last name?

“Yuuri umm…”

Yuuri stands there, laughter bubbling on his lips while his hand is still pressed against Viktor’s mouth.

“Forgive me,” Viktor says with both amusement and embarrassment. “What’s your last name?”

“Katsuki.”

“Yuuri Katsuki. You’re so beautiful, Yuuri Katsuki.”

“As are you, Viktor Nififorov.”

It’s Viktor’s turn to bubble with amusement. “Nikiforov,” he corrects with a smitten smile.

“Sorry, sorry!” Yuuri scrambles, pulling his hand back to his side. “Nikiforov.”

“It’s alright, love”

Yuuri blushes deep red at the term of endearment, but Viktor couldn’t care less. He pulls Yuuri snug to his side and finds that he doesn’t mind the lack of space between them. When he feels Yuuri shiver against him, he offers his scarf. The tan plaid doesn’t go well with his outfit but that matters none.

-

They stay at the market for a couple hours. Yuuri spends most of the time carrying bags and complimenting the blue of Viktor’s eyes while his ~~date~~ friend shops around. He finds out many things about the elusive Viktor Nikiforov just by his purchases, not counting the stories he tells Yuuri.

For example, he finds out the Viktor prefers red wines to white but would forgo drinking wine if he could afford to buy champagne his whole life. He could probably afford it too if he didn’t indulge too much in food and bath products. He finds out that Viktor, like Pichit, does not underestimate the value of a good concealer when he’s almost swindled into buying fifty dollars worth of face makeup by an organic cosmetics stands. He seems materialistic and self-centered at first.

The genuine, loving dork underneath all the good looks and materialism is what makes Yuuri quite fond. He snorts when he laughs too hard, talks about his dog more than he talks about any human, and does small spins on his uninjured leg when he gets excited. He rarely brings up his past, but when he does, he says, “Yuuri, I used to have long hair. Do you know how hard it was to skate with long hair?” His absent mindedness and his forgetfulness (“Yuuri! What’s your last name again? I want to see if it’s on one of these cool keychains!”) are made up for the joy that lights up in his eyes whenever Yuuri squeezes his hand.

Yuuri, in turn, reveals a lot to Viktor in nervous spurts of dialogue. He spills his thoughts over a dinner of cinnamon roasted walnuts and mint mocha lattes on the steps outside a closed clothing boutique. They are talking about food when Yuuri gets painfully homesick in telling Viktor of his favorite dish; katsudon.

Then he speaks of Japan in incredible detail. He describes his mother and father and their hot spring inn (Viktor learns that a hot spring means a huge bath plus plenty of food and relaxation. He suggests that perhaps they visit sometime soon.) where he grew up. He speaks his past as an amateur figure skater, something both Viktor and Yuuri have in common.  He describes how his self-esteem had caused him to quit. He hits a nerve when tells of his struggles with body weight and makes an offhand comment about how he shouldn’t be eating all the sugar he is.

“But you’re beautiful!” Viktor exclaims through a mouthful of nuts.

“No, I’m not,” Yuuri murmurs, casting his gaze aside. “I’ve always put on weight easily. I never could maintain the physique of a figure skater, so I just… quit.”

“Nonsense! You have the perfect body!"

Viktor scoots closer and snakes his arm around Yuuri’s waist. “You’re captivating. I bet you would look stunning out on the ice, even at your current weight.”

They’re close, almost too close, but neither pulls away. Their clouds of breath mingle in the space between them, mouths just inches apart. It’s snowing. The flurries somehow find their way onto Viktor’s face just as he flutters his lids closed.

And amid the cold and the snow, they kiss, for just a millisecond. Their lips meet in a chaste, hesitant peck before the both of them pull away, far too swiftly for either of their liking. Yuuri opens his eyes to a stunned, pained-looking Viktor.

“I’m sorry,” he says breathlessly. “My leg is hurting. I’m not used to walking around for this long.”

Too fast. They were moving too fast. Yuuri can tell by Viktor’s face. His brow is furrowed, far more than it had been when he would absently rub his leg and wince in pain earlier during the night. Yuuri hopes he isn’t being too forward. It’s obvious that they’re both attracted to each other, yet there’s something more that’s holding Viktor back.

Or Yuuri is just over thinking and a chaste kiss on the first date is appropriate and Viktor’s leg really does hurt that badly.

In that case...

“Let’s get going then,” he says. “Will you be okay enough to drive?”

“Of course. Don’t worry Yuuri Katsuki, I’ll get you home safe,” Viktor responds with a laugh; an empty, shallow laugh.

They walk back through the market in silence. It’s somewhere between comfortable and uncomfortable, with the kiss still lingering in Yuuri’s mind while they try to balance all of the bags they had acquired throughout the night.

The shops are closing for the night. Viktor’s mind is somewhere far away, but his right hand clutches onto the blue bouquet from earlier as if his life depends on it.

The lights fade all too soon and the warmth turns to a frosty chill. They’re at Viktor’s shiny, black Cadillac in no time and they return to the familiar territory of laughter and banter. Yuuri spends his last ten minutes in Viktor’s presence teasing him about his driving.

Alas, they arrive back at Yuuri’s apartment. He’s reluctant to get out because he wants to stay with Viktor. He wants to kiss him again, this time with little hesitance and all tender affection. He really, really likes Viktor.

But he does get out and he does collect his taffy bag. In a rush, he almost forgets the pink bouquet he had received at the beginning of the night. Just before he opens the door to his building Viktor comes limping out, yelling, “Wait!”

Yuuri smiles at Viktor’s exasperation, holding the flowers out before him as rushes as fast as he can go. Meeting Yuuri at the door, he shoves the roses into Yuuri’s hands, his gaze downcast and his free hand clenched at his side.

Yuuri accepts them, as he did just a few hours previous. They’re a little wilted from their time in the car but it doesn't matter they’re still beautiful; just like Viktor.

“Look,” Viktor says, with sudden desperation. “I really, really like you…”

His trailing off strikes anxiety deep within Yuuri’s chest. So maybe Yuuri did move too fast…

“And I had a lot of fun tonight.”

Yuuri feels tears well up in his eyes, preparing for rejection.

Viktor takes Yuuri’s hand, a fond smile enveloping his face. “New Year's eve, my friend Christophe is having a party. I’d like you to come with me.”

Yuuri blinks. “What?”

“Can you come to this party with me, Yuuri Katsuki?”

A similar smile covers Yuuri’s face.

“I don’t think I have anything else to do that night. I’ll go.” He attempts to hide the emotion in his voice, but it doesn’t work. “Of course I’ll go,” he adds on in a whisper.

Then Viktor steps forward and wraps his arms around Yuuri. “Thank you,” he says, his lips pressed to Yuuri’s forehead.

Yuuri blushes. The man is always full of surprises.

Viktor unwraps himself from Yuuri and turns away.

“Text me?” he says right before they both go their separate ways.

Yuuri laughs. “Of course.”

On the walk back to his apartment his phone buzzes. It’s Viktor of course.

Viktor Nikiforov

**_I already miss you_ **

Yuuri quickly types out his reply.

**_I miss you too.. You better not be texting and driving_ **

He sighs and locks his phone, clutching it to his chest like a lovesick teenage boy. He sure has a lot to tell Phichit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any reads, kudos, and/or comments are appreciated. Thank you for all your support.


	3. i - morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri keep running into each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm so so so so sorry for not updating for literal weeks. Everything has been so stressful and this story had gotten stuck for a while. Now thanks to my lovely beta [Dottie](http://p-dottie.tumblr.com/) for getting me unstuck and giving me such wonderful ideas.
> 
> Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy.

White, blank walls catch the intense rays of Detroit's afternoon sun. They’re blank, holding no evidence of anyone every occupying the space except for one, singular, framed psychology diploma. Viktor would rather run his tired eyes over it, reading the words over and over, than make eye contact with his therapist.

“So, you’ve met someone?”

The incredulous tone in her voice makes him chuckle.

Viktor smiles and leans back. “Yes,” he tells her. “Yes, I have.”

His therapist, damned to the ironic name “Doctor Perry McSharry”, clicks her pen and moves to write down something on a clipboard just out of Viktor’s watchful gaze.

He’d been seeing Doctor McSharry since the fall, per Yakov’s suggestion. It had taken a couple of weeks full of long distance poking and prodding, but Viktor had eventually complied and contacted her on the grounds that, no he was not depressed, he just needed someone to talk to about his issues.

Depressed.

The words had weighted his tongue down and anchored his lips shut at first. Of course, he wasn’t depressed, he was just lonely and he missed skating.  Yakov kept saying it to him in his own native language. “ _Vitya_ ,” he would say. “ _You’re depressed. You need to see someone._ ”

And every time he would reply through gritted teeth, “I’m fine, Yakov. I’m not…”

As time wore on, he began to notice things. Things such as the way he had preferred to take naps over any other activity or how he distanced himself from people. A life of solitude was the only life that had ever suited Viktor. Even when he had been skating, he didn’t have much of a friend group or a real family, save for Makkachin.

So Viktor had toyed with the idea of being depressed, given it careful thought for about a week and called the number Yakov had left him.

Three months he’s been seeing her now, and in those three months, he’s let the fanciful idea go. He wasn’t “broken” or “sad”, just bored, longing for something he’ll never get back. It’s not some romanticized notion of isolation; it’s Viktor’s stupid self that can’t get his stupid body and his stupid brain to function properly enough.

Viktor still goes to her once a week, though. His feelings, he’s learned, are best left exposed and out in the air, rather than contained inside him until they manifest themselves in some form of recklessness.

And of course, he tells her about Yuuri.

Viktor leans back into her plush white couch and lets a smirk cover his face.

“What’s his name?” She indulges him for a moment, a suggestive, pencilled-in eyebrow raised.

“Yuuri,” he replies, relishing in the way the name sounds rolling off of his tongue. “Yuuri Katsuki.”

She leans forward and pushes her glasses up her nose. “And how did you two meet?” Her likeness is that of a schoolgirl gossiping with her friends.

Viktor spills and gushes about Yuuri until his throat feels dry. He tells her of their meet-cute in the Starbucks. He goes on about their texting rituals, about facetiming Yuuri at one in the morning because he couldn't sleep that night. Viktor speaks in depth of their moonlit date at the Christmas market and their kiss-but-not-really-a-kiss on those cold steps, now just a week ago. When he's done, he sighs happily and leans forward on his cane.

“So Yuuri makes you happy?” she asks, eyes boring directly into Viktor’s.

“Yes,” replies Viktor instantaneously.

“Are you seeing him today?”

His smile grows. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Pursing her lips, Doctor McSharry moves to check her phone for the time; Viktor does the same and sees that their session is due to end.

He stands up with a slight groan. “Thank you,” he says curtly, as he does every time, and moves to give her a handshake. When he gets outside the secluded building, the sun is shining and the wind is blowing a fresh breeze.

And Viktor leaves feeling like a weight has been lifted off of his chest. There’s a bounce in his step and a swing in his hips, almost like the snowy wind could just lift him up and carry him away. The cold bites and nips at his nose, coloring his cheeks red and watering his eyes. Anyone who knows Viktor would probably be thrown off guard; they’d say he looks alive and maybe, just maybe, happy.

It’s not just that he had finally been able to rant about Yuuri in a truly, gushy, schoolboy-who-just-got-his-first-kiss, style of rant. He’d been wanting to do that since their date, but apparently, Yuri isn’t the type that likes hearing about Viktor’s “stupid crushes”.

The reason for his smile, though, was none other than Yuuri Katsuki himself. Also, the fact that Viktor is about to go surprise him during his shift lightens his step just a bit more. He hops into his car with a smile that can’t be broken, turning on the radio and blasting it as his car takes off down the street, tires screeching against the wet pavement.

-

Yuuri Katsuki’s afternoon shift has been thoroughly uneventful, save for the endless waves of customers. He can’t complain because it gives him something to do, but he’d rather be somewhere else with someone else.

He spends most of his work day in a trance, a dreamlike state haunted by the piercing blue irises of Viktor Nikiforov’s eyes. He makes drinks with his mind wandering back to the feeling of Viktor’s arm around his waist and cold lips pressed against his own.

The last thing he expects during the lull after the noon time rush is for the man himself to make a personal appearance.

Yuuri is facing away from the counter, cleaning out the dirtied foam machine. A melancholy [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5otIvIJcvwU) starts playing, only worsening his dull mood when he hears the bell clanging against the glass door. Suppressing the sigh building in the back of his throat, he pivots around to roll of his usual greeting when he’s met by windblown silver hair and bright eyes.

“Viktor!” he exclaims, a bit too loud and excited.

Viktor laughs, a smile pushing his entire face up. “Hello, Yuuri.”

All at once, the air in his lungs feels as if it’s been sucked out. “What are you doing here?” he breathes.

“Why, visiting you, of course,” Viktor replies, a flirty lilt in his voice.

Crimson blush makes its way up Yuuri’s cheeks and colors his ears. “You didn’t have to,” he mutters.

Viktor steps up to the counter and leans on the glass case. “You said ‘that feel when you’re bored at work’ on your Snapchat story so I decided that I might as well,” he explains. “Oh and I’ll have a tall vanilla bean if that isn’t too much trouble.”

Feigning an annoyed sigh, Yuuri rolls his eyes and smiles. “Anything for you, Viktor,” he replies in a mocking tone.

As he turns around, he bumps hips with one of his coworkers who’d been at the drive-thru window. “Who’s that Katsuki?” they ask, a knowing smirk on their face.

Another huff of air escapes him. “Felix,” he says, “meet my friend Viktor Nikiforov.”

Adorably, Viktor raises a gloved hand and waves it, greeting, “Hello!”

“Hey,” Felix replies nonchalantly. “Yuuri, honestly, congratulations. He’s really hot.”

It’s loud enough for Viktor to hear and he just lights up with an open-mouthed smile. “Thank you!”

Yuuri’s embarrassment only grows as he busies himself with making Viktor’s order. It’s unusually slow, leaving room for Felix to interrogate Viktor. From the corner of his eye, Yuuri watches as Viktor answers all their invasive questions with ease (and the occasional swish of his hair, which makes Yuuri’s stomach flutter. How could he be so effortlessly charming?)

The drink is finally complete and Yuuri grabs a sharpie and doodle’s Viktor’s name (with a tiny heart over the ‘i’.) “One tall vanilla bean,” he proclaims, sliding it across the counter to Viktor’s gloved hand, “masterfully crafted by yours truly.”

“Thank you,” Viktor says. “This is the best vanilla bean I’ve ever had, Yuuri.”

Yuuri smiles. “How do you know? You haven’t even tasted it yet,” he points out.

“Because you made it,” Viktor flirts, moving to his back pocket to fish out a wallet. He takes out a twenty dollar bill and stuffs it in the tip jar before extracting his card to pay.

Yuuri gulps. “You didn’t have to do that,” he nearly stutters.

Viktor’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “I wanted to.”

Yuuri processes the rest of his payment with a prominent stain of pink on his cheeks. Felix elbows Yuuri and waggles their eyebrows at him while Viktor stares at his phone.

A sigh escapes Viktor. “The other Yuri needs me to pick him up, so I have to go,” he says, picking up his drink, “but thank you, Yuuri. We’re still on for Saturday, да?”

Felix gasps as Yuuri chokes out a muffled, “Yes,” gaze focusing on the floor.

“Good!” Viktor proclaims. “See you then! До свидания!”

And then he’s gone again. The clacking of the bell against glass rings throughout the almost empty shop. Yuuri clutches at his chest, just over his beating heart and stares at the door with admiration. Had that actually just happened to him?

“You’re telling me he’s just a friend?” Felix smirks. “I don’t believe that for one second.”

“I-It’s complicated. We only just met,” Yuuri replies.

Because it _is_ complicated. They’d gone out on one single date, facetimed a handful of times, and texted each other constantly. Viktor’s intentions have been clear from the start with Yuuri; he hadn’t gifted Yuuri with his number because he wanted to be friends. His flirtations made it abundantly clear that Viktor was trying to court Yuuri. It feels weird to Yuuri, sort of unnatural, but the way he and Viktor just seem to click makes up for it.

It’s also complicated because of Yuuri’s self-worth that is about the size of a pea. There are simple facts. Viktor is conventionally attractive. Viktor is the most decorated male figure skater in the world. Viktor is rather affluent. Compared to Yuuri, he shines like a thousand suns while Yuuri is a pathetic tealight flame. Yuuri is broke. Yuuri quit skating because he was too fat. Yuuri isn’t conventionally attractive.

Yuuri is, in his own opinion, nothing, while Viktor is everything. He gives off this ethereal aura that constantly throws Yuuri metaphorical curve balls and scrambles all of Yuuri’s rational thoughts. He seems so untouchable, so unlike any other human he’s ever met before.

Felix adjusts their apron and rolls their eyes. “Well, he’s completely in love by and you should hit that before someone else does.”

Yuuri completely ignores the fact that Felix had just advised him to “hit that”, in favor of losing himself in his own thoughts.

Being in the presence of Viktor Nikiforov feels so anxiety inducing. Part of Yuuri likes it, but he’s also scared to be around him. He still has no idea what Viktor is playing at, asking out a genuinely unattractive person such as himself. Viktor’s aware that Yuuri can’t even hold a candle to his flame, right?

Yuuri sighs and resorts to cleaning out the blenders.

-

Later that night, Viktor and Yuri are sitting on the couch, watching reruns of Friends over bowls of microwave ramen. They’re both bored out of their minds, staring at the television with blank expressions.

Then Viktor gets an idea.

“Hey Yuri,” he says, interrupting the silence. “We should go to the mall.”

It throws Yuri off guard. Eyebrows knit in confusion, he gives Viktor a stare. “What do you mean ‘We should go to the mall’?”

Viktor shrugs and lowers his hand to pet Makkachin who sighs happily under his touch. “We. Should. Go. To. The. Mall. Have you forgotten English, Yuri?”

Yuri sighs. “You want to do something besides sit on your ass and eat pasta?”

“I need to get an outfit for Christophe’s party! I look so outdated next to Yuuri,” Viktor explains, picking up his phone.

“It’s because you are outdated. And old.”

Not paying much attention to his insults, Viktor checks Yuuri’s Snapchat story for the tenth time that hour. Sure enough, Yuuri’s still at the mall with his roommate as he had been an hour ago.

“We can do some Christmas shopping too,” Viktor says.

“Since when do you have anyone to go Christmas shopping for.”

It stings a little because Yuri’s right, there's not really anyone in his life that he needs to buy for. Perhaps, Christophe or Yuuri, but save for them…

“Shut up,” Viktor bites back, flitting his eyes back to the screen.

Yuri catches sight of Viktor’s phone, sees Yuuri’s face, and gasps.

“You old geezer!” he exclaims. “You just wanna go to see your stupid, piggy boyfriend.”

Viktor bristles. “No I don’t,” he says defensively, tucking his phone closer to his chest.

“Yes, you do!”

“So what if I do?”

Yuri sighs and rolls his eyes. “You’re so pathetic.”

To that, Viktor doesn’t reply.

Sure he’s pathetic; that’s a well-established fact in Viktor Nikiforov’s brain. He, quite frankly, doesn’t care how his patheticness manifests itself because the air in his apartment is choking him. He had once loved it for its privacy and isolation, now he hates it. It feels like city smog, pressing down on his lungs. He can’t sit still anymore, he has so much energy, yet…

Viktor stands up. “I’m going. You can come if you want.”

He knows Yuri won’t let him go to a large, crowded area unattended, especially with the information that Viktor probably hasn’t been to a shopping mall in two years. He also knows that he needs Yuri, otherwise he would resort to people watching by himself in a busy place. He knows that would lead to thinking and then over thinking and some distant, pathetic part of himself reminds him that he’s dependent on a fifteen-year-old to make himself seem less alone. It stings; hurts more than the rampant pain in his left knee.

That doesn’t mean he won’t get up and walk out the door with his cane and car keys, so he does just that. Five steps are all it takes. Viktor walks five, small, shuffling, intentionally loud steps before he hears a door being flung open and low, teenage grumbles filling the air.

“Ah, so you wanted to join me after all, Yura,” Viktor says.

Yuri zips his blue sports jacket up and props the hood up. “I’m just going so you don’t get lost, old man.”

Viktor smiles, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes. Yuri cares. It may be shrouded in about a hundred layers of repressed emotions (thirty of which are anger), but his caring nature does tend to manifest itself whenever Viktor tries to do something reckless. It’s nice. It makes Viktor feel less like he’s destined to a life of eternal solitude and more like his only friend ever will be a fifteen-year-old (which isn’t so bad, considering Viktor has no real friends.)

That being said, Yuri Plitzetski cannot stand Viktor’s driving. Viktor finds it hilarious when Yuri emits small screeches at every intersection and jumps at every hard turn. In the parking lot at the mall, Viktor narrowly misses being rammed into by a truck, which effectively sends Yuri into a panic.

“How the hell did I survive that?” Yuri wheezes, gripping the side of Viktor’s car.

“Honestly,” replies Viktor, “I dunno.” And he just laughs.

If looks could kill, Viktor would have been six feet under with the intensity of Yuri’s gaze.

“Quit being dramatic. Let’s go,” he says with a swish of his hair.

Once inside, Viktor immediately feels waves of regret washing over him. The flow of the crowd is too fast and people are bumping into him every couple of seconds. It doesn’t panic Vikor but it reminds him bitterly of his isolation.

So, his first natural instinct is to get food. Yuri doesn’t seem to be bothered by the suggestion, letting out a half-hearted “sure” when Viktor asks if he wants to go to the food court. He drifts to the center of the mall, gloved hands keeping an awkward grip on Yuri’s shoulder.

“Have you forgotten how to interact with people?” Yuri hisses as he feels his skin begin to bruise under Viktor’s hand.

Withdrawing his touch, Viktor flinches and stays silent. He needs to find Yuuri soon, that’s the only way he could possibly feel relaxed. Yuuri’s hand on his the only thing that had kept him grounded when they went to the Christmas market together. Yuuri’s presence has this odd, calming effect on him. His contrast balances Viktor out so smoothly that Viktor doesn’t feel like he’s sticking out like a sore thumb.

Yuri sighs. “Viktor. Let's go home.”

“Huh?” Viktor cocks his head.

“You heard me. Let's go home.”

“We just got here."

Stopping in his tracks, Yuri rolls his eyes. “And you're obviously uncomfortable.”

A couple of people irritably make their way around them as they hold some sort of staring contest.

“ _I’m not uncomfortable_ ,” Viktor insists, speaking in his native tongue. If they were going to start talking about feelings in the middle of a crowded space, Viktor wanted their conversation to stay between them two.

“ _Yeah, you are,_ ” Yuri bites back, puffing a blond tuft of hair from his face. “ _You’ve been tense since we got here. Let’s just go home_.”

Amid the harsh Russian syllables, Viktor finds a strange melancholic twinge in his voice, especially at the end of his sentence. His eyes fall to the ground for a second before meeting Viktor’s gaze in a challenge.

And Viktor is then hit with the realization that Yuri is a teenager, a young teenager. Viktor’s own teenage years had been dedicated to the ice and ignoring the stabbing pain of loneliness in his chest. He had been so obsessed with skating and winning and keeping up appearances that he had lost many of the joys and wonders of the teenage experience.

Viktor finally knows why Yakov had been so insistent on making Yuri take the rest of the season off.

So he decides that they’re going to stay at the mall, goddammit, and they’re going to go get pizza from the food court and make fun of people passing by. And afterward, maybe they’d get fancy drinks from Starbucks and maybe, if Viktor’s feeling generous, they’d go to Hot Topic. Maybe he’d find Yuuri, maybe he wouldn’t, but that didn’t matter as much anymore. They are outside of the house for the first time in days and they are going to enjoy it, Viktor’s sure of it.

“We’re staying,” he announces in English, before swinging around and colliding face first with-

“Viktor?” says a voice as soft as honey and light as a cloud. Viktor almost gets on his knees to give thanks to the heavens for sending such a wonderful angel with such impeccable timing.

“Yuuri Katsuki?” he says in mock surprise, pressed flush to Yuuri’s chest.

He can almost feel Yuri’s raging aura seeping into the air. Surely they could have the perfect teenage experience while spending time with Yuuri?

“Oh, it’s the little piggy!” Yuri laughs coldly, approaching the entangled pair.

And every tender and/or caring that Viktor has ever had of Yuri just dissipates into thin air.

They jump apart and Viktor remembers that Yuuri isn't unaccompanied either. An irate looking Phichit Chulanont raises an impeccably highlighted eyebrow.

“And you are?” he challenges, staring directly at Yuri with his hands on his hips.

Yuri mirrors Phichit’s confident posture. “I’m Yuri Plitzetski, Ice Tiger of Ru-”

Phichit dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Okay, calm down there edgelord three-thousand. We’re just gonna call you Yurio because that’s easier.”

“That’s not my name!”

“Anyway,” he turns to Viktor and Yuuri, “funny seeing you here, Viktor.”

Viktor, who has already attached to Yuuri’s side smiles a heart-shaped smile. “I have to get a new outfit for a New Years party. Me and Yurio were just going to go get food.”

A light blush has climbed from the bridge of Yuuri’s nose and spread up to his ears His free hand drifts by his side until Viktor swallows the lump in his throat and laces their fingers together. Yuuri’s face melts into a happy smile and Viktor reflects it.

“You want to get food with them, Phichit?” Yuuri asks, adjusting his beanie with his free hand.

Phichit narrows his eyes, glancing between the two of them.

“Actually,” he says, much too loudly, “I’m not that hungry. I was going to go to Sephora. I’ll catch up with you later.”

Viktor shrugs as well as Yuuri, while Yuri(o) scoffs. “So you’re just gonna leave me with these two lovebirds?”

“Yep,” says Phichit, popping the ‘p’ and turning on his heel. He sneaks one awfully suggestive wink back at Yuuri which even makes Viktor blush.

And then he’s gone, disappearing into the rushing throngs of The trio is left in the middle of the mall, Yuuri making awkward eye contact with Yuri(o) until Viktor breaks the silence with a sigh.

“How does pizza sound?” he asks, making it sound as if he’s addressing the whole group, but really, he’s just staring at Yuuri.

The pink of Yuuri’s beanie brings out his rose tinted cheeks so nicely. A soft smile spreads across his full lips. “Good. Pizza sounds good.”

-

Yuuri raises his eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

They are talking about language. It had been the first thing he shared in common with Viktor and it extended now to Yuri. None of them had been born and raised in America nor had any of them learned English as their first language. When Yuri finds this is true, he nags at Yuuri to teach him Japanese swears. And Yuuri, being the responsible adult he is, obliges even though it feels extremely childish. Now they are passing a napkin back and forth, writing down the most vulgar things they can think of.

Yuri finishes writing the Cyrillic lettering on a greasy napkin with a smirk. Viktor leans over, taking a bite of his pizza and almost choking on it when his eyes pass over the words. Dissolving into a fit of laughter, Yuri clutches at his stomach while Viktor downs a sip of water to keep from dying.

Yuri reads it out loud, in Russian first, pronouncing every syllable before translating it to Yuuri. “Suck my cock,” he says simply, biting down on his lip before bursting into laughter.

Viktor looks wide-eyed at Yuuri. “I have no idea where he gets this stuff from.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes and stands up. He takes the marked up napkin as well as the rest of their trash and begins to walk toward the garbage. It takes him a good thirty seconds to dispose of their stuff before he pivots back toward the table.

And in those thirty seconds, said table has accumulated a crowd of three people.

Viktor looks in utter distress as Yuuri approaches. He picks up the last of their conversation just when he slides back into the seat.

“... and we were just wondering if you could sign my phone case or something,” says the girl on the end.

The other two hold out crumpled receipts, hopeful expressions plastered on their faces.

Yuuri’s initial confusion melts into realization. This is Viktor’s former fame manifesting itself for him to see. It's shocking and it furthers Yuuri’s feelings of inadequacy.

But it seems as if Viktor isn't handling it well either. His shoulders are rigid and his expression is stuck on this emotionless smile that Yuuri’s never seen before. Breath is coming rigid, shaking up Viktor’s spine.

He recognizes the twinges of anxiety laden in Viktor’s face; even Yuri seems concerned at this point. So Yuuri grabs onto his free hand and squeezes in tight reassurance.

His smile drops a bit and it doesn’t feel so fake anymore. “T-thank you,” he says, his voice shaking. “Yuri do you have that pen?”

The purple ink pen is deposited into Viktor's grip in swift movements as if Yuri is approaching a frightened animal. Viktor probably is frightened; Yuuri can feel the thrumming pulse against his wrist, but he seems to work through it. He signs their offerings with an elegant swirl of cursive.

The girl on the end continues to stare at Viktor, biting down on her lip. Her friends try to tug her away but she stays before opening her mouth a blurting out, “I hope you’re okay…"

There’s an odd beat of silence before she continues.

“Because I mean, you’ve been my inspiration for years now and the skating world hasn’t heard much about you in years but like I hope you’re okay and I hope you know you still have loads of support and yeah…”

She trails off, eyes glued to the floor. “Sorry… I’m gonna go.”

But Viktor gazes up, eyes misted over. “No, it’s alright,” he quivers. “Thank you… so much.”

“Don’t give up skating,” he adds. “I’d like to see people like you on the ice, breaking my records.”

The girl looks as if she’s going to explode. A tremendous smile breaks out across her face. “Thank you, Viktor!” they say, before running to catch up with her friends.

It’s an odd, uncharacteristic bearing of Viktor’s soul. Yuuri feels his entire view of Viktor shift before his very eyes. For a couple moments, he’d been completely vulnerable. The Viktor he knows sends him shitty memes at one am and smiles constantly. It’s shocking to see him and relate to him instead of feeling like he’s an angel of descended from the heavens.

It’s a small glimpse into his past and it reassures Yuuri. Yes, he might’ve been Viktor Nikiforov, Olympic figure skater, but he’s also Viktor Nikiforov, the human being. It feels nice, natural like the ebb and flow of the tide or the rising and setting of the sun.

They say nothing about the incident, all three letting out huffs of breath when the fan leaves. Yuuri’s hand continues its iron grip around Viktor’s.

They spend the rest of the night shopping for outfits and helping Yuuri pick out Christmas gifts. Viktor finds his party look at Forever 21, staring at the lacy pink crop tops that remind him so much of Yuuri’s own sense of fashion. He blows a good hundred dollars, buying black skinny jeans, boots, a choker, and a pink fur coat to go with it. Phichit meets up with them just as Viktor walks out of the fitting room in the full ensemble and even he is left dry mouthed. Yuuri doesn’t know how he’s still standing as Viktor struts his new look.

Afterward, Phichit begrudgingly goes into Hot Topic with Yuri so as to give Yuuri and Viktor alone time. The pair melts back into the easy going conversations they had been so used to as Yuuri ends up in an indie pottery shop. With Viktor’s help, they pick out a teapot to send back home to Hiroko Katsuki to add to her ever growing collection. It a pretty design and Yuuri says the flowers painted on the top remind him of the cherry blossoms in Hasetsu. Viktor agrees, telling him that ‘Mama Katsuki’ would most definitely love it.

At the end of the night, when Viktor’s knee is throbbing from all the walking and his eyes are drooping, they meet up with their respective partners and part ways with a gentle cheek kiss initiated by Yuuri.

-

When Yuuri and Phichit get home, bone tired from a long day, the gears are still turning in Yuuri’s head. Phichit can see it, leaning back in his futon and scrolling through his phone.

“He’s really an enigma, isn't he?” Phichit pipes up, voice barely audible over the television.

Yuuri throws off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees, before shutting off the light.

Viktor Nikiforov has truly twisted himself into an enigma. His surface is so polished and clean, like a perfect porcelain doll, but that smile he had given his fans… It’s unsettling to Yuuri. How could anyone not see how fake it had been? Then there’s his tired under eyes bags that always seem to contrast so dark against his pale complexion.

And then there’s the question Yuuri still has yet to answer. Why would Viktor even care about him? He’s as average as average can get. And while Viktor has proven himself to be a relatable human, he’s everything that average isn’t. He’s surprising and lovely and incredibly hot (had he not noticed how Yuuri almost fainted in the Forever 21 dressing room?) and wonderful. What is Viktor playing at?

And as much as Yuuri loves overthinking late at night, he decides he needs answers if he’s ever going to get sleep.

As Phichit’s cartoons wash the room in a pale, blue light, Yuuri reaches for his glasses on the nightstand and slips them on as quiet as he can manage. He checks out of the corner of his eye to see if Phichit is still asleep, even with loud snores drifting through the air. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end; he feels as if he’s doing something wrong.

His fingers fly across his phone keyboard, typing out the name he’s wanted to search since Viktor told him of his former stardom. He’d refraining from doing so; he feels like it would be an invasion of privacy to Viktor. He had needed to get to know the real Viktor first, but curiosity is an overwhelming feeling that Yuuri can no longer fight.

Yuuri presses the enter key and waits anxiously while the page loads.

**Showing Results for “Viktor Nikiforov”**

About 26,000 results

**Viktor Nikiforov - Wikipedia**

Viktor Nikiforov is retired male figure skater who currently holds the most world titles in history. He broke the world record for the highest scoring short program…

Childhood - Junior Competitions - Vancouver 2010 Olympics - Senior Competitions - Sochi 2014 Olympics 

**Nikiforov takes in Plitzetski after Grand Prix failure - Sports Reference**

Dec 5, 2016 - Yuri Plitzetski has reportedly moved in with retired figure skating star, Viktor Nikiforov. When asked why coach Yakov Feltsman said...

**Nearly 3 years since Nikiforov retired - ESPN**

Dec 10, 2016 - This upcoming February will mark three years since skating legend, Viktor Nikiforov, has left the ice, leaving room for new talent…

**Viktor Nikiforov. Sochi 2014 Olympics. Free Program - Youtube**

Feb 20, 2014

9:45 - 1,376,590 views

Viktor Nikiforov skates his 2014 Free Skate Program “Where is my Love” at the 2014 winter Olympics in Sochi.

Yuuri’s fingers take on a life of their own, shaking as his thumb presses down on the video link.

Another part of him fills with both guilt and dread. Somewhere among these videos is the one where Viktor skates his last. It could very well be the one playing in his hands. All he knows is that Viktor’s accident happened on the ice, during one of his performances; that’s all Yuuri had managed to find out.

The Viktor on his screen skates onto the center of the ice, arms held out by his sides with his chin tilted upwards. He looks triumphant just like his own name suggests, skates as golden as the implication of his ranking. When he finally stops in the middle of the rink, Yuuri feels the breath escaping his lungs.

He’s beautiful, just like the ice he skates on. His hair, as white as snow, reaches the middle of his back. The sharp cut of his jaw is lined by a high-collared, blue, lace top which flows down into a skirt and wraps tightly around his arms. Fitted black pants outline his muscular figure.

But there’s something wrong, Yuuri already knows. When the camera pans to Viktor’s face, his expression is downcast with melancholy. Too late, Yuuri notices a black swatch of cloth wrapped tightly around his left knee; the knee that Viktor always rubs and leans on when he walks.

“Here we have Viktor Nikiforov. He reportedly got into an accident with his rinkmate during practice earlier yesterday, but against even his coach’s suggestion of dropping out of the competition, he’s back on the ice today. He’ll be skating to “Where is my Love.”

This is it; it’s the performance, the one that takes Viktor off the ice for good. Yuuri almost exits out of the app.

The [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAG97kBUr4E) starts, a series of dismal piano notes floating through the air. Viktor drifts to the left, raising his arm and tilting his chin up. The camera pans onto his face for a brief second, just long enough for Yuuri to see the violet shadows under his eyes. In Yuuri’s chest, his heart swells with anxiety.

His body moves fluidly across the ice to the left side of the rink. Yuuri gasps as he sees Viktor tense up and flies into a jump; he recognizes it as a Salchow. When Viktor lands, his fingertips touch down on the ice; a small flash of disappointment shapes his features before melting back into a melancholy frown.

Something is wrong. Yuuri knows, the audience knows, the judges know, even Viktor does; it's evident on his features.

But he continues to skate, even with his legs wobbling. His step sequence is, according to the commenters, “lackluster” and “completely unlike his stunning performance at Nationals.”

The Viktor on Yuuri’s screen is readying himself for another jump. He braces himself and then lifts off the ice.

His body sways to the side in the middle of the jump. The audio picks up a sickening crack as his head slams against the barrier. Yuuri feels all the air leave his lungs. Viktor's body lies completely still on the ice and the music abruptly shuts off.

For three whole seconds, there's a deadly silence.

Then the scene erupts into complete and utter chaos. Blood rushing in his ears, Yuuri watches on as he hears screams and shouts, the rush of movement contrasting sharply with Viktor's utter lack of it. He’s too still; Yuuri thinks he could be dead.

The thought chills him to his very core. A world without Viktor Nikiforov would be a cold world; a cruel existence. It would be like a day with no sun or an ocean without fish. It simply would not be right.

So, how on earth did Viktor survive that?

  
Yuuri exits out of the app and swipes it out of history. No sensationalized article could tell him the truth; he needs Viktor to open up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the tension builds.
> 
> Lemme know what you think! Thank you for all the support!!
> 
> ((hmu on twitter @ugliegay if u want to scream about yoi))


	4. i - mid-morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri (and Yurio) celebrate Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys it's your piece of shit author who can't seem to keep an update schedule!!! here's what I've spent the entire month working on so I hope it's good...
> 
> this was originally intended to be a gigantic 10k chapter, but I made the executive decision to break it in two. the good news is that the second part is almost done and y'all should be getting an update within the next week or so.
> 
> [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/128718315/playlist/6pJSRi8rjQRGzJegOC0RSM) is a playlist of all the songs I've refenced so far.
> 
> [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/128718315/playlist/0LgwIaW8VQkzwiQzHDUlMs) is a playlist of music I listen to while writing this. I would recommend listening to it while reading.
> 
> tw for alcohol and underage drinking on yurio's behalf.
> 
> enjoy

Yuuri crashes onto Phichit’s futon, phone in one hand and child-sized bag of taffy in the other. Setting the device down, he reaches into the bag and pulls out the most absurd candy he can find; a bright, yellow taffy swirled with purple.

“Okay,” he says out loud, “here we have this weird purple and yellow one. Any guesses as to what flavor this could be?”

A laugh comes out of his phone speaker as he leans over to show his face to the camera.

“Uhh, wildberry.” Viktor’s face meets him on the screen,  eyes fixated on a spot beyond the lense. “Yurio, what do you think?”

There’s a disgruntled noise followed by, “Don’t call me that, baldy. It’s obviously grape lemonade.”

Yuuri and Viktor both let out an “ohh” at the same time. Yuri’s stomping footsteps echo from the phone.

Shrugging, Yuuri pops the candy into his mouth. After a few seconds of chewing he laughs and says, “Yurio, you were right!’

A muffled, “Of course I was,”  comes in reply before a door slams.

Yuuri leans back and swallows his candy. “Why is he like this?”

“Honestly? I dunno,” Viktor responds with a laugh and a flick of his hair.  

The front door to Yuuri’s apartment flies open and Phichit marches in, yelling, “Honey, I’m homo!”

Yuuri doesn’t bother looking up for his phone as he continues to stare at Viktor, who has resorted to making rather hideous faces into the camera. A snort of laughter escapes him.

“Don’t you mean home?” he asks when he feels Phichit enter the room. 

“Absolutely not,” Phichit replies. “Anyway, just got the Modern Renaissance palette by Anastasia?”

The sigh that escapes Yuuri is contrasted by the excited gasp that comes from Viktor. “Oh my god, really?” he shouts, eyes growing adorably wide on the screen.

Phichit bumps Yuuri onto the floor and shoves his face into the camera. “Hell yeah I did!” he yells back with equal enthusiasm, showing off an expensive looking velvet palette box.

A low-browed determination washing over Viktor’s features.“Yuuri, I’m coming over,” says he. 

Yuuri’s expression grows sour from his spot on the floor. “Oh so you’ll come over for Phichit, but not me?”

“Yep,” Viktor responds without hesitation. 

Chuckling, Phichit leans back and gives cheeky a thumbs up. 

And Yuuri won't admit it, rubbing the spot on his elbow that had hit the floor when he was pushed off, but later that night, curled up in his bed and watching one of Phichit’s dumb cartoons, he realizes just how much he enjoys Viktor. Not just his flighty, yet complex personality nor his just his eyes that are so blue he feels like he could drown in them. It's the normalcy of him, the way he’s settled into his life and made it better. 

Something warm erupts in his stomach when he watches Viktor and Phichit interact, how they bond over makeup brands and their love for obscure restaurants and eateries in Detroit. The same feeling plagues him as Viktor stops into his Starbucks, on the corner of Woodward and Mack, just to see him. He orders the same thing and Yuuri knows it better than he knows most of his regulars’ drinks; a blueberry scone and a tall Java Chip. He comes to learn so many little things about Viktor through these brief visits. 

But what Yuuri doesn’t learn is _ why _ ? Why has Vitkor has become such an integral part of his day-to-day life? Why is he, of all people, allowed to becoming privy to all the small and wonderful details of former professional figure skater Viktor Nikiforov’s life? Yuuri isn’t really anything that special to write home about; just a fat kid with dorky glasses who honestly can’t seem to get his life together. He’s twenty-four with a Bachelor's in English, yet nothing to show for it, whereas Viktor is a retired, world famous athlete.

It is almost ironic. Viktor is someone Yuuri had dreamed of being when he was just eight years old, trying on a pair of skates for the very first time. After years of hard work on the ice, he had just, given it all up at the ripe, young age of fifteen. Certainly, Viktor didn’t want someone such as himself; someone who despised the sport of figure skating for its body standard he had never been able to maintain and it’s social stigma.

And of course, there was the looming question of Viktor’s past; the enigmatic block of nearly nothing that Viktor stubbornly holds onto. The video is still fresh in his mind; Viktor’s corpse-like body lying on the ice. The very thought of it unsettles Yuuri to his very core.  

Yuuri wants, more than anything, to find out more.

-

Christmas Day rolls around far faster than Viktor wants it too. Sooner than warranted, he finds himself setting up a pathetic, half-decorated, fake Christmas tree on the eve of the twenty-fifth, per Yuri’s request. Viktor had been puzzled by the suggestion at first, but soon enough he recognizes what’s going through Yuri’s head.

“Yuri,” Viktor says when they’re finished plugging the small tree into the wall. “You don’t have to force yourself to feel, you know that.”

Shaking his head, Yuri blinks confused eyes at Viktor. “What?”

Viktor pokes his cane at one of the falling branches in an attempt to get it to stay upright. “I know it’s hard going through the holidays without family, but don’t try and force yourself to feel happier,” he explains, softly and slowly, keeping his gaze to the ground. 

He remembered doing the same when he first moved to Detroit to live on his own, decorating a tree and going out to Christmas markets. But that didn't erase the fact that he had no one to share the holiday with. He knows just how tiring it can be to keep trying to make himself happy.

Yuri doesn’t respond, only picking apart his gingerbread cookie and shoving small bits into his mouth.

“All I’m saying is that we could just forget that it’s Christmas. We can eat some ramen and watch a Russian soap opera, I dunno. Just don’t try and force yourself to be in the spirit, alright?” Viktor informs, having given up on the branch and letting it fall to the floor.

Sometimes Viktor forgets that Yuuri’s only fifteen. He certainly doesn’t act like a typical teenager and part of him knows it probably because of his absent family, but he prays it isn’t. Sometimes, Yuri’s rough-around-the-edges personality takes a step backward and there are moments when he truly looks like the vulnerable teenager he is.

This is one of those moments.

Yuri nods around his cookie, eyes downcast and misted over.

Viktor limps to the kitchen and grabs a glittering, green bag off of the counter.

“And since we’re not celebrating Christmas, have your gift tonight,” he says once he’s made his way back into the living room.

He tosses the bag to Yuri and awaits his reaction with a warm grin

From the bag, Yuri draws a pale, tan piece of cloth and gathers it into his hands before stretching it out before himself. A gasp of recognition escapes his lips as his blown out pupils graze over his gift in wonder.

“You said your old binder was getting too small, right?” Viktor says with a raise of his eyebrow. “Can’t have you walking around suffocating now, can we?”

Drawing from the silence and the look on Yuri’s face, Viktor can tell he doesn’t know what to say. Such a gift is so personal and thoughtful; Yuri had only ever bought binders online, by himself. His grins. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

Viktor opens his mouth to say ‘your welcome’, but, just then, he gets a text from Yuuri.

Yuuri

**Hey, do you have plans for tonight??**

 

Viktor’s face lights up in a smile as he shoots a text back.

 

**No… why?**

 

Three little dots in the corner signify Yuuri’s quick response. The smile never leaves Viktor’s face. 

 

**Idk Phichit went to his partner’s house for Christmas dinner and I’m just sitting here… by myself…**

 

“It looks like Yuuri’s going to join us, if that’s alright with you,” Viktor informs, staring at the text on his screen with a light blush crawling up his cheeks.

A scoff sounds from Yuri, who has most definitely shoved his moment of vulnerability back down under his one hundred different layers of angsty, teenage nonsense. “I don’t care,” he mutters.

“Good! Because he’s on his way right now!” Viktor informs cheerily. “Your welcome for the gift, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, old man.”

In his excitement, he lowers himself to the ground where Makkachin sleeps peacefully. Rousing the dog from slumber, Viktor starts prodding Makka’s fur around his cheeks and cooing utter nonsense.

“Did you hear that, Makka?” he says with a dopey grin. “Yuuri’s coming over! I know you like Yuuri! He always gives me an extra scone for you and he does it with the prettiest smile.”

“Dear God,” Yuri mumbles, flopping onto the couch with his phone in hand. “Are you two even dating yet?”

Viktor ignores Yuri and begins to mold shapes on Makka’s belly fur. “And sometimes, he just looks up with the most beautiful brown eyes and I feel like I’m going to melt, Makkachin.”

Makka blinks and licks a stripe up Viktor’s face. Falling back into a fit of laughter, he lets Makkachin engulf him with kisses until his face is covered in slobber. Yuri shivers in disgust from his spot on the couch.

“This is why I’m a cat person,” says Yuri, aiming his phone at Viktor and taking half a dozen pictures. “You’re embarrassing.”

Viktor sits up and pulls Makka into his lap. “I’ve seen you slobbering over your cat before,” he informs with an eyebrow raised.

“I have not, you liar!” 

“I have videos.”

“No you don’t, old man!”

Viktor slips his phone out of his back pocket. “You know, I might just post it.”

Yuri gasps and lowers his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, but I would,” Viktor laughs, holding up his screen to show Yuri his Twitter feed. 

Yuri remains skeptical. “You haven’t posted anything original on that page since April 2014.”

Viktor types up his caption and presses send; of course, he would break his stubborn social media silence out of pure spite, especially pure spite of Yuri Plitzetski. He watches with amusement as Yuri leans his head down to check his feed and sure enough:

 

**Viktor Nikiforov .** @v-nikiforovs  ✔ . 30s. 

why is he like this? @yuraplitz

 

A sound somewhere between a squeak and a shout escapes Yuri as he nearly slips on his way to where Viktor lie on the ground. “Delete it, you hag! I swear to fucking god!” he shouts.

Viktor scrambles to his feet and does the unthinkable; he rushes to the kitchen as fast as his feet will take him and shoves his phone on the highest shelf of his wine cabinet.  Yuri, who had been right on Viktor’s heels, lets out an unintelligible shout before attempting to climb Viktor’s rather tall and tree-like body to get to the shelf. His efforts, however, remain fruitless when Viktor simply leans to the side on his cane and lets Yuri slip to the ground.

“How’s the weather down there, little kitten?” Viktor taunts.

He erupts into laughter as he can practically see Yuri’s eyes turn red. “Shut the fuck up, you fucking string bean!”

Viktor is about to taunt back his extremely smart and witty reply ( _ I’m really sorry Yuri, but I can’t really hear you up here. You’re so far away!)  _ but he’s interrupted by a rather loud song that he’d long forgotten he’d set as Christophe Giacometti’s ringtone.

_ “Pull up in the monster automobile gangster with a bad bitch that came from Sri Lanka. Yeah, I’m in that Tonka, color of Willy Wonka. You could be the King but watch the Queen conquer. Okay, first things first I’ll eat your bra-” _

Viktor is already scrambling to get to his phone, but it’s too late; Yuri had gotten enough video evidence to put him back into a social media silence for another year and a half and he doesn’t hesitate to post it. While Viktor answers his phone, Yuri remains a giggling mess on the ground.

“Chris,” he answers with a fake cheery voice. “What going on?”

Wasting no time, Christophe answers with a swift and demanding, “You’re still coming to my party, right?”

A look of confusion crosses his face. “Of course. I thought I already told you I was coming.”

He can feel Christophe’s eyeroll through the lines. “Viktor,” he sighs, “me and you both know that you have a tendency to back out of things last minute. That’s not gonna happen this time, right?”

It’s Viktor’s turn to roll his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Good,” Christophe says, sharply, “because I’m finalizing the guest list today. I better see you there.”

Then comes the dial tone and a Viktor sighs, leaning onto his right knee. His phone, merely seconds after hanging up, has taken on a life of its own, buzzing uncontrollably with notifications. With a huff of breath, he turns his phone on night mode and almost throws it onto the counter.

He really shouldn’t have done that; “that” referring to a whole list of things that covers the following: Promising Christophe Giacometti that he attend one of his notorious parties, posting a video of a teenager who still listens to 2012 heavy metal, letting said teenager live with him for the rest of his offseason, and last but not least, getting wine drunk with Christophe three years ago and deciding that Nicki Minaj would be an appropriate ringtone for his number.

And on top of that, there’s a buzzing at his door, which means his crush, the beautiful Yuuri Katsuki, has arrived. He will probably be wearing something extremely adorable which will definitely send Viktor into a state of shock, or melt him into a puddle, or both simultaneously. 

Viktor is too overwhelmed find it within him to move to the door so Yuri buzzzes Yuuri in. 

It takes a whole sixty seconds for Yuuri to get to the door, which becomes the most stressful sixty seconds in his twenty-eight years of living. 

And when Yuuri is suddenly standing there, rosy-cheeked and wrapped up in a thick, blue scarf, Viktor feels as if his soul has ascended to another plane of existence; how on earth was it even legal for one man to look so cute? 

“Hey, Yurio,” Yuuri breathes, shaking the flecks of snow out of his hair. 

Yuri blows his bangs out of his face. “That’s not my name.”

Yuuri, who has gotten used to Yuri’s antics, simply ignores his comments and stares in Viktor’s direction with a warm smile.

“Hey, Viktor,” he greets with a wave. “Merry Christmas… and Happy Birthday.”

Viktor swallows and blinks, not paying attention to Yuuri’s words nearly as much as his actions, watching as he strips himself of his heavy jacket as well as a couple of sparkling gift bags, and places them on the kitchen counter. 

And just like that, all of Viktor’s problems fade to the back. 

As fashionable as ever, Yuuri’s pink turtleneck is adorned with red and white lettering, stating “Happy Holla Days.” His hair is completely gelled back and his lips are glistening with a clear gloss (and in that moment Viktor thanks the stars for Phichit because Yuuri’s not the type to wear lipgloss without a little encouragement, but when he does…)

Viktor’s entire face lifts upwards. “Hello, Yuuri,” he replies, taking Yuuri’s hand in his own.

“Happy Birthday,” Yuuri repeats with a nervous twinge to his voice. “I, um, I got you something… and Yurio because I saw this really dumb tiger shirt in the mall the other day and I thought, ‘that’s something he would wear’...” He ends his ramblings with a nervous huff of laughter, drifting his gaze over anything but Viktor’s eyes.

“You didn’t have too,” Viktor replies. He wonders if Yuuri hears the soft, admiration in his voice.

Yuuri shakes his head. “I hope you like it,” he murmurs, taking the bigger, red bag from the counter and giving it to Viktor.

With the likeness of a five-year-old, Viktor tears the three layers of tissue paper out of the way and almost rips his present from the fragile, paper bag.

And he almost dies at the sight of a brown poodle plushie in his hands.

In his lifetime, Viktor has only remembered receiving a total of five gifts on his birthday. The first was a very small pair of ice skating lovingly wrapped in a vibrant red bow tied by his mother’s careful hand at the tender age of three. The second was Viktor’s first costume donated by a seamstress with a soft spot for orphans; a small blue suit with a ruffled, high neck shirt and puffed out sleeves that he wore to his first competition at the age of ten. Third; a gleaming golden medal that contrasted very nicely against the dark navy of his costume as he had received it only two days after the second. From Yakov Feltsman came his fourth; a pair of golden skates after Viktor took first in the Junior Russian Nationals.

His fifth and final gift lie clutched in his arms, faux fur soft under his fingertips.

“Yuuri,” he says, breathless with wonder. “Thank you!”

Knowing Yuuri, he’s perplexed by Viktor’s reaction as he is hesitant to hug Viktor back. Yuuri is kind and thoughtful without knowing it, it’s just part of his nature and it continues to stun Viktor every time.

“I also brought champagne,” Yuuri laughs nervously.

Viktor clasps his hands together around his stuffed dog. “Then it's a party!” he exclaims, a heart-shaped smile spreading up his cheeks and reaching his eyes. “Yurio, get in here! Yuuri brought champagne!” 

“You're not gonna let me have any, so I'm not interested,” comes a low mumble from down the hall. 

Viktor tilts his head to the side and pretends to be deep in thought. “You can have a bit if you promise not to be rude to Yuuri,” he proposes. 

There’s a sound of feet hitting the floor akin to a dog running toward a dropped piece of food. Yuri appears in the kitchen in record time with a hopeful look in his eyes. “Okay,” he replies.

Viktor glances uneasily as Yuuri, who has resorted to trying to pry open the bottle. He seems to wrestle with it until the cork comes off with a boisterous pop, a small shower of foam coming out of the open end.

A cheer comes from Viktor as Makkachin moves to lick the droplets off of the tile. Yuri scrambles to Viktor’s not-so-secret liquor cabinet and take out three champagne flutes with a rather sly smirk spread across his features.

Yuuri fills each of them to the top and sets the bottle down. “Merry Christmas!” he exclaims.

-

Surprising to no one, Yuri Plitzetski has the single lowest alcohol tolerance in human history. Somehow, Yuri’s single flute of champagne is enough to put a slur on his tongue and a leftward lean in his step. He’s loose-lipped and buzzed enough to have the audacity to ask Yuuri for another glass (which Yuuri lets him have, because it’s Christmas Eve and he remembers what it was like to be a teen.) 

After that, Yuuri almost singlehandedly finishes off the rest of the bottle. Unlike the other Yuri, he can hold his alcohol quite well. Sure, there’s a light red tint spreading over the bridge of his nose and onto his cheeks and the world around him feels quite warm, but he’s coherent enough to challenge Viktor to a game of Mario Kart after discovering a dusty Wii console behind the TV. 

And because of his competitive nature he beats Viktor and Yuri to pulp in every single round, including Rainbow Road. Yuuri thanks Mari Katsuki for years of training as he sends a blue shell straight toward Viktor’s car and runs it right off the track.

The loss is brutal. 

“Savage,” Yuri murmurs, half asleep as leans into Yuuri’s side.

Yuri is then carried off to his place of the pullout couch in the guest room, his hair is a mess comparable to a straw bird’s nest and his chin almost covered in drool. Before leaving him to slumber peacefully, Viktor sneaks his phone out and takes a picture. When Yuuri raises his eyebrows in question, Viktor only replies, “Blackmail,” with a mischievous grin.

And then they’re finally alone. It’s what Yuuri’s wanted all night, ever since he walked into the lavish apartment building. 

“So…” Yuuri trails off, bouncing a bit in place due to the blood rushing in his ears. “What do ya wanna do now?”

Viktor raises his eyes to the ceiling (just enough so that the blue of his irises catch the low lighting from his lamp, turning them almost a steely gray) and taps a finger to his chin in thought.

“Oh I dunno…” he trails. “We could watch a movie or something.”

But the tipsy Yuuri Katsuki has other ideas.

“We could dance!” he shouts suddenly, as if he had just gotten the idea and hasn’t been thinking about twirling in Viktor’s arms all week. “Let’s dance!”

Viktor’s smile could outshine the sun if it wanted to. “To what music?”

Of course, Yuuri had planned that out too. What sort of person would he be if he hadn’t already made and remade three separate playlists with different moods? All week long he had mulled over song choices and argued with Phichit about said choices. (He was quite surprised by what Yuuri deemed erotic enough to put under his “sexy” playlist.) 

But when it comes down to it, he just tosses his phone to the side and pulls Viktor up from the couch. He stumbles just a bit, leaning on his injured leg, before pressing flush to Yuuri’s chest. 

Both their faces light up with red, but neither makes an attempt to break away. Yuuri smiles, all lopsided and giggly, leaning his head on Viktor’s chest.  He breathes in. 

“You smell good,” he states, sniffing a few more times for good measure, “like a man, you know, like those Bath & Body soaps for guys.”

Viktor laughs, his chest rumbling pleasantly on Yuuri’s cheek. “It's Chanel,” he informs. 

“Oh my god, you're so rich,” Yuuri laughs. “Is your couch from the Chanel furniture collection, too?”

A crease forms in Viktor’s brow. “.. No, it’s…” 

Yuuri raises his head up and lifts an eyebrow. 

“It's Calvin Klein, okay! My coach gave it to me as a gift,” Viktor says defensively. 

Yuuri’s smile widens. “So you’re telling me that figure skating pays well,” he teases, sticking his tongue out. 

Viktor relaxes his brows and loosens his lips. “Ah well, only if you win.”

“Good thing I quit because I would've been broke.”

“Hush. I bet you would've been the richest skater ever.”

And just like that, Viktor’s flirtations make his heart stutters his chest. He scoots himself closer in Viktor’s embrace. On the crown on his head, he feels Viktor place a gentle, fleeting kiss. Yuuri tightens his grip. 

He never wants this to end. He wants to stay in Viktor's warm, shaking arms until the sun rises. He wants so badly to let himself sink into Viktor until he can't even feel himself anymore. 

For years, Yuuri’s been alone, viewing love from the outside. He's always wondered how it would feel; to love and be loved in return. He remembers watching Phichit bring home a number of partners and thinking how nice it would be. During all those hopeless teenage years, seeing his peers fall in and out of love, Yuuri had wanted in on it. 

In the back of his alcohol tainted brain, he wonders idly if this is how it feels to fall in love. 

But the moment is shattered. Viktor’s jaw presses down and a low yawn escapes his mouth. 

Yuuri backs out of the hug in a whirlwind of anxious breath. “I-I’m sorry. It's getting late. I should…”

Viktor’s eyes flash with an unreadable emotion. He blinks slowly before catching Yuuri’s hand in his own. 

“Don't go,” says he, eyes earnest as they search Yuuri’s. 

Yuuri pretends not to hear the longing twinges in his voice. He bites down on his lip. “But I didn't bring anything to change into and I wouldn't want to use-”

“Yuuri,” Viktor pleads. “Stay.”

And Yuuri, whose resolve had already started breaking down when Viktor first asked, gives in with a sigh. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I'll stay.” 

The tension in Viktor jaw drops, fingers shakily entangling in Yuuri’s hair.  A trembling, hot breath ghosts over the crown of his head. The gratitude radiating from Viktor, Yuuri can almost feel it surrounding him and enveloping him in warmth. He feels safe. He feels loved. 

“Спасибо,” whispers Viktor. 

And while Yuuri doesn't speak a lick of Russian, he knows it's an expression of thanks; he can tell by the tone of Viktor’s voice.

“You don't need to thank me,” Yuuri replies, leaning back and brushing Viktor’s disheveled bangs from his forehead. With his heart fluttering against his rib cage, he presses gentle lips to Viktor's brow. “I'm here.”

There's a sort of frailty to Viktor as he ushers Yuuri into his room. Yuuri can't quite tell if it's the poor lighting, or if Viktor really is that pale. He leans onto his cane as his walks, cold fingers pressing against the small of Yuuri’s back, guiding him to moonlit, white bed. 

For a moment, Yuuri steps outside of himself and becomes aware of exactly how intimate the scene before him is. He and Viktor will be sharing a bed. In the purest sense of the phrase, he would be sleeping with him. His gut twists with a weird sense of anticipation as well as nerves; he's never done anything like this before. 

Surprisingly, falling into bed with Viktor is simple and painless. He lets Yuuri get changed in the bathroom and when he's done, trading his jeans for simple grey sweatpants, he gives Yuuri his distance on the other side of the bed. 

But because Viktor is a magnetic force, he ends up being engulfed by strong, pale arms. For the first time in what feels like years, Yuuri is safe. Every second ticks by, trapped by what seems like some sort of bubble, just outside of reality; a bubble of warmth and blush tainted skin and laughter. The man across from him, the man who had just tumbled into his life almost a month ago now, looks so beautiful bathed in the moonlight. His silvery hair takes up a blueish tint, pale lashes casting long shadows over high cheekbones. The icey color of his irises (Are they navy? Periwinkle? Cyan? Yuuri can’t even find the accurate words to describe the them.) shine with an unspeakable emotion that Yuuri is somehow able to read as gratitude. 

Long after Viktor has drifted off, Yuuri has a sudden, unpleasant epiphany. It strikes him as he’s running tired, brown eyes over Viktor’s bare eyes, wishing there was something to busy his stare with.

The walls are bare. There’s no embellishments, pictures, or even decoration. The room where Yuuri lies has about as much personality as a box of rocks. Greys and whites encase every inch of the room and in the silvery light, it looks like a black and white film, only interrupted by the light flush still dancing across Viktor’s nose.

No family, a handful of distant friends, inactive on social media…

“Oh god,” says Yuuri, widening his eyes and tightening his hold around Viktor’s middle.

Viktor must’ve isolated himself, after his accident. Or he’s always been isolated. Either way, it only makes sense. There’s no other plausible answer to his enigma. 

He’s a lonely man, living in only the company of a dog and an unruly teenager. He doesn't seem to have a job, nor go out much. The way he had reacted when those fans approached him, how he skirted around the topic of his past, his reaction to the thought of Yuuri leaving; it all adds up.

Yuuri lets an uneven breath escape his nose before he snuggles closer into Viktor’s chest. Letting himself sink into the man he’s become so enamored with, he closes his eyes and makes a promise to the stars barely visible through the city smog.

_ As long as I’m around, he won’t be alone,  _ vows he. 

-

Morning greets the slumbering Viktor with harsh sunlight and loud groaning deep within the bowels of his apartment. When he flutters his eyes open, the bed is empty and there’s a soft sound of conversation drifting through the air. He blinks rapidly before registering the twinges of a headache in his temples.

It’s a process, getting out of bed. Normally, Viktor doesn’t have the motivation or the energy to rise so early but there’s a smell in the kitchen that draws him out from under the covers and up onto his feet. The pain throbbing in his left knee almost takes him back down, but he persists on with determination to find the source of the cinnamon-sugary scent.

When Viktor enters into the kitchen, he wonders how he ever doubted it would be anyone but Yuuri Katsuki making him a home cooked breakfast from whatever he could scavenge in his cabinets. He’s greeted by a cheery grin and a jarring groan, the latter coming from a wrecked looking Yuri Plitzetski nursing a cup of coffee with a pair of sunglasses on.

“Good morning,” Viktor greets pleasantly. “How are you doing on this bright and sunny day, Yurio?”

“Shut the fuck up,” replies Yuri.

Viktor closes his eyes in a teasing grin. “I should take a couple pictures so we can put it in a scrapbook,” he laughs. “Baby’s first hangover.”

A sound somewhere between a growl and sniff comes from Yuri. Ever eloquently, he says, “Fuck off.”

“And good morning to you, Yuuri! What are you making?”

Yuuri spins around from his position at the stove and shoots him a closed-mouth grin. “It’s a recipe I learned in college,” he explains. “They’re called apple pancakes. And a nice bacon sandwich for Yurio.”

Knitting his brow, Viktor asks, “Where did you get bacon from? And apples?”

Yuuri lowers his head, blushing furiously. “I, um,” he gulps. “I walked to the store across the street.”

“Really?” Viktor looks at the clock. It's 9:30, meaning Yuuri must’ve gotten up early and gone, paying for the food with his own money. 

“Yep.”

Once again, Viktor is struck by Yuuri Katsuki’s kindness. He just shrugs it off too, as if it's normal to get up at 8:00 just to buy ingredients to make breakfast.  Upon further inspection, it seems like he wrote down the recipe too, and taped it to the fridge. 

Viktor has never wanted to hug someone more in his entire life. 

And for the rest of the morning, it's quiet, but not the uncomfortable quiet that makes skin crawl and hair stand on end. It’s the kind of quiet that greets the morning and eases one into the day. Yuri sits idly by, scrolling through his Instagram feed before excusing himself to go back to sleep.  The two of them make small talk in hushed tones, both gripping onto mugs while Yuuri's breakfast concoction bakes in the barely used oven. 

It's a change of pace for Viktor, who had always nursed hangovers by himself in the confines of his bedroom. Those days had been miserable and terribly, incredibly lonely; the ones where he'd wake up with a headache pinching the nerves behind his eyes and a stench of sweat tinging the air. It's a startling contrast from his morning with Yuuri. 

When the “apple pancakes” are finally done (which are more of a cake in Viktor’s opinion), they eat. Viktor, throughout the whole meal, takes it upon himself to compliment Yuuri until his entire face is alight with red. 

And when that's all done and the dishes are washed up (a joint effort by both Yuuri and Viktor with entirely too many lingering gazes) Yuuri announces that he has to leave because he and Phichit have plans that afternoon. 

On his way out, Viktor stops Yuuri, catching his hand in his grip. “Thank you,” he says, almost in reverent awe. 

Yuuri shakes his head, rejecting the thanks and instead saying, “Happy Birthday, Viktor.”

Just like that, he's gone again and his body snuggled tight to Viktor’s chest is but a memory. 

Viktor smiles. He clutches his hand to his heart, taking both joy and satisfaction in the warmth spreading in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading. 
> 
> I've decided on keeping an update schedule from now on. expect updates every two weeks, on Thursdays.


	5. i - high noon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor and Yuuri attend a New Year's Eve party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omfg hi guys it's your unreliable author here with your latest top up of gay. i know i said every other week on thursdays but i lied and i hate myself. maybe over the summer i'll be a better a better auhtor? a better person?? perhaps...
> 
> anyways, in a breakdown, i deleted my tumblr and thus lost contact with my beta so this Just Might be terrible. please give me feedback. i'll love you forever.
> 
> tw for alcohol and axiety attacks/mental breakdowns
> 
> forewarning: angst

The days leading up to the party are filled with late nights on FaceTime with Viktor and mid afternoon stressing with Phichit. At the top of Yuuri’s ever-growing laundry list of things to be worried about is this looming threat.

Yuuri’s been to parties before. He knows about all the social customs and practices of college kids trying to get absolutely blasted on a Friday night. What he doesn’t know about is parties thrown by people like Viktor.

Viktor is older, richer, and more refined than anyone Yuuri has ever taken romantic interest in. The demographics of this party would be a stark contrast to one of Phichit New Year’s kickbacks with cheap booze and dollar store decorations. It would be much more sophisticated; perhaps there would be fancy wine and cheese. Besides, Christophe Giacometti, host extraordinaire of “The Party”, is a world famous skater and the current world champion, according to Wikipedia. There’s no way in hell Yuuri will ever feel comfortable there; he knows it.

But, he cares not, because Viktor will be there, by his side, in all his pink, lacey, fur-coated glory and that is something that Yuuri cannot miss.

Throughout the days of preparation (filled with several trips to the mall in which Yuuri decides on an outfit), Yuuri keeps it noted in the back of his mind that this party would be a change of pace for Viktor as well. If he’s right about his deductions, this would be the first time Viktor would going out in a long time. It comforts Yuuri, in some strange, twisted way, knowing that he wouldn’t be alone in his anxieties.

So when the day finally comes and Yuuri and Phichit are stuffed into their bathroom, completing their respective beauty routines, Yuuri is oddly at ease. He jokes and laughs with Phichit the entire time, ignoring the tightening sense of both anticipation and anxiety brewing in his gut.

Yuuri’s composure is almost lost when Phichit makes a side comment, regarding who he’s going to “smooch” at midnight.

Phichit turns on his heel and approaches Yuuri with a tube of nude lip gloss. “What about you? Are you gonna smooch Viktor at midnight?”

Hands full of pomade, Yuuri’s mouth goes dry. “Oh wow,” he remarks to himself. “...I, um.”

He hadn’t given that possibility much thought. Would Viktor even want to kiss him? Yuuri knows he wants it. He’s absolutely certain. With their “first kiss” now a distant memory, he longs to again for the feel of Viktor's lips against his. They’re absolutely gorgeous. They tantalize him every time he shows his face to the camera, parting elegantly as his pleasant lilt fills the air. Yuuri wants him-

“Yuuri?” Phichit’s voice snaps him from his daydreams.

“I think so,” Yuuri replies, sounding entirely too unsure for his friend's liking.

Phichit’s beautifully arched eyebrow raises. “You ‘think so’? Yuuri this is your night to party with rich people. You’re going to kiss Viktor Nikiforov at midnight while the fireworks are going off and then you’re going to steal a bottle of Grey Goose to bring back to my party!” he commands with a determined fire in his voice.

“I’m not stealing an entire bottle of Grey Goose.”

“So you’ll kiss Viktor Nikiforov at midnight?”

Yuuri inhales and opens his mouth to speak. “I,” he manages to spit out before Phichit starts to laugh. “Fine! I will kiss him!”

He exhales and turns to look at his reflection.  _ Hopefully _ , he'll kiss Viktor. 

-

Viktor’s thoughts race the entire drive to the party. He doesn't talk much, preferring to clench his jaw while Yuuri scrolls on his phone. The tension in the air is thick, thrumming with anxious energy. 

“Y-you look nice,” says Yuuri, gaze flitting up from his phone and running down Viktor’s body. 

In his humble opinion, he looks ridiculous. He hasn't dressed like this since he was a teenager and he feels completely and utterly stupid. Regret courses through him. His lacy crop top seems to tighten around his chest. 

“You think so?” Viktor asks in a moment of vulnerability. His eyes dart to the mirror, checking his hair briefly before returning to the road. 

“Yeah,” Yuuri responds with breathless sincerity. “You look really good in pink.”

Viktor releases a tense breath. “Thank you.” He taps out a random rhythm on the wheel as he sneaks fleeting glances toward Yuuri. 

His mind keeps on racing and no matter how hard he tries to stop it, he can't. A sigh falls from his mouth. When did he get this anxious about simple things like parties? Viktorused to be able to dazzle sponsors with a smile and charm lovers with a wink. Now, he can't even comprehend going to a simple party with his crush. Where did it all go wrong?

And Yuuri, kind, caring, wonderful Yuuri, takes his hand and grips Viktor's shoulder. “Viktor,” says he, “you're gonna be alright.”

They stop at an intersection. The car comes to a halt. “How do you know?” Viktor asks, voice small like a frightened child. 

“I just do,” Yuuri replies. He smiles warmly. “Besides, you're not the only one who’s nervous.” 

Viktor raises his brow. “You’re nervous?” 

“Yep.” 

“Why?” 

To that, Yuuri doesn't answer at first; he only sighs and chuckles fondly. “I have anxiety, Viktor,” he deadpans. 

Viktor tilts his head and turns the wheel. “Really?” he asks, a doubtful look cast over his features. 

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

Them there’s a silence, which grows from comfortable to awkward and makes Viktor shiver. All the while, his mind begins to fill with probing question upon probing question. Sure, he noticed Yuuri was always a bit nervous, tense even, but he would never guess anxiety disorder. 

“Well, why are you worried about the party?” Viktor inquires, doing his best to break the silence. 

Yuuri’s eyes are now glued to his phone as he types out a message, probably to Phichit. “I, um,” he starts, halfway preoccupied with texting. “I dunno really. I worry about everything. It's no big deal.”

As they pull up into a parking garage, Viktor looks over at Yuuri as if he were talking nonsense. “Of course it's a big deal, Yuuri,” says Viktor. “What's bothering you so much about this?” 

Shifting in his seat, Yuuri slips his phone into his back pocket. He sniffles before mumbling, “Everything.” 

Viktor almost laughs, not because it sounds foreign to him, but because he relates. He hasn't stopped worrying about this party since the beginning of the week. There's so many things that could go wrong; so many wrong turns. He hadn't been to a party like this since he was forced into retirement and he's so nervous he feels as if his heart might lurch out of his chest. 

He breathes. “What's the absolute worst thing that could happen, Yuuri?” 

His therapist often asked him the same question about things that gave him such anxiety. After thinking about it for awhile, it would be a bit comforting to Viktor. He figures it might work on Yuuri. 

The car pulls into an empty parking space and a Yuuri seems to swallow his words a couple times before he finally answers. 

“Well… I could get uncomfortable and stick to the walls the entire time while you're having a good time with your fancy friends and then you realize that I’m terrible at socializing and yeah…”

The truth spills from Yuuri as if he'd been gutted. His words come out in a rushing stream, one after another until it's all finally out and Viktor actually does laugh this time. “Wow,” he chuckles. Yuuri stares at him with bug eyes. 

“Now what's the best thing that could happen?” Viktor presses on, shifting so his torso faces Yuuri. 

“I enjoy myself… with you.” 

The answer surprises Viktor, as per usual with Yuuri; he's always a man filled with surprises. It’s shocking enough to send a trail of crimson across the bridge of his nose and to the tips of his ears. He smiles warmly. 

The last question,  _ what’s probably going to happen? _ , slips his mind. He's entirely too focused on the way Yuuri looks under the dim lighting of the parking garage. He’d traded out his glasses for contacts and pushed his hair back, out of his face. While Viktor loves every different variation of Yuuri, he appreciates this one for the time being. He doesn't know how it happens, but it slips out. 

“Yuuri. You look…”

He trails off and stares directly into Yuuri’s eyes, searching them. The whole world narrows down to just the two of them in the car. Viktor could spend his entire night in that parking garage; he could care less about the party. Yuuri’s stunning beauty could keep him enraptured for hours. 

_ I’m gonna kiss him tonight _ , he vows to himself. 

Yuuri moves to unbuckle himself. He tilts his head toward the door. “You wanna… get going?” 

Lowering his eyes, Viktor nods.  

He opens the door and steps out. 

“Don't forget your cane!” Yuuri reminds, prompting a sigh from Viktor, who had just closed the car door and most definitely forgotten his cane. 

“Yes mom,” he replies with an eye roll. 

Once they finally get everything together, they join hands and start the strenuous walk toward Chris’s apartment building. The wind is biting, almost as fiercely as the anxious thoughts swimming in his mind, but Yuuri’s hand is warm. It entwines with Viktor’s, holding on tight. In some strange way, it grounds him. It stops the flow of panic and reminds him that Yuuri is there whenever he’s needed.

After navigating their way to the building, up several staircases, and through a series of hallways, Viktor is back at Christophe Giacometti’s bachelor pad.  Almost three years have passed since he last was faced with this sleek metal door and so much has changed. Back then, he had just won the world’s and was visiting his best friend, a bottle of wine in hand to celebrate both of their respective victories. 

Now, with shaking hands, Viktor brings his fist to knock at the door of man’s apartment who he hasn't talked to since he cut himself off from the world. He stares, wide eyed, before rapping twice at the surface. Perhaps it's time to start letting people in again. 

Christophe opens the door. His brow knits for a brief moment before melting into a welcoming smile. 

“Viktor!” says he with all the warmth and familiarity of an old friend. It makes Viktor’s heart ache as he leans in for a hug he hasn't felt in years. 

He lets himself be wrapped up in the embrace. “Chris!” he replies, with equal enthusiasm. 

There's a gentle sound of someone clearing their throats behind him and suddenly, flighty and air-brained Viktor realizes that he had abandoned Yuuri in the doorway. He breaks from the hug and turns around to reach for Yuuri’s hand. 

And, of course, Chris’s eyes travel up and down Yuuri’s body like a dog looking at a piece of meat. Viktor almost doesn't blame him. Almost. 

“And who is this fine specimen you've brought with you today,” Chris remarks appreciatively, gesturing to a rather flustered Yuuri. 

He gives a small wave. “Hi.”

This is Yuuri Katsuki,” Viktor says. “Yuuri, meet Christophe Giacometti.” 

Allowing himself one last lingering gaze, Chris winks, before saying, “Hello, Yuuri.” 

He turns on his heel and begins to lead them toward the sound of chatter. Yuuri grabs hold of Viktor’s hand. He squeezes, palms sweaty with nerves. 

Eventually, they end up in Chris’s kitchen area. It's chock full of people; skaters, old friends, a couple of his ex-lovers. They all stop for a short moment when Viktor enters with Yuuri at his side. 

Viktor freezes as well. Scanning his eyes through the crowd, he sees a multitude of familiar faces. A few are some skaters from the senior division, people he'd only met in the passing seconds between competitions. A few more are far too familiar for his liking. 

The chatter resumes and people return to their conversations, but it isn't enough to erase the chill in the air. The tension is a crackling, not only between him and his former competitors but him and his own rinkmates. Mila Babicheva’s icy blue eyes haven't left him since he entered. Yuuri shifts in his spot, visibly uncomfortable. 

Viktor hunches his shoulders. “Chris,” he hisses. “Why didn't you tell me Mila was going to be here?” 

“Because you wouldn't have come if you knew,” Chris shrugs noncommittally. “Besides, they're only staring because no one has seen you in two years. You're like the cryptid of the skating world.” 

That earns a laugh from Yuuri, whose silence had been growing more and more concerning every second. If Viktor's feeling panicky, he can only imagine what Yuuri’s going through. 

“Relax,” commands Chris, holding up a bottle of wine he had produced from a cabinet. “They're just curious. No one hates you. Well maybe JJ, but that's because he still hasn't gotten over the fact that he never placed ahead of you…” 

A huff of breath exits Viktor's mouth. He feels Mila’s gaze on his back. “Fine,” he breathes as he plops onto a barstool at the counter. Silently, Yuuri follows suite, his grip still tight on Viktor’s free hand. 

People mill about around them as Chris fills two wine glasses. “So,” he drawls, looking at Yuuri pointedly, “how did you meet Viktor?”  He lifts his eyebrow with intrigue. 

It takes a moment for Yuuri to swallow and glance around before he answers. “He, um…. he sorta stumbled into the Starbucks I work at… and yeah, he gave me his number after not ordering anything.”  Chuckling nervously, he grabs the glass Chris had set in front of him and downs it all one go. 

Viktor raises his brow. Chris whistles. 

“You alright, Yuuri?” asks Viktor. 

Yuuri doesn't meet his concerned gaze. “I'm good,” he supplies, tugging at his turtleneck. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” 

Pursing his lips, Chris clears his throat.  He throws his head back, draining his own wine glass, and slams it back down on the table as if he were doing shots of hard liquor. Viktor supposes he'd been buzzed before they walked in the door. 

"Tell ya what,” Chris says, rather loudly. “Viktor, go talk to Mila. I'll stay here with your dear Yuuri.” 

Viktor splutters over his glass. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m gonna have you two hugging the walls the entire time. I invited you here because I wanted you to have fun and that obviously isn't going to happen if you don't at least try to talk to her.”

“But-”

“Viktor, you left two years ago without any explanation. Yuri wasn't the only one who looked up to you. I think she deserves at least some answers.”

He sighs. Yuuri’s brow knits in confusion. 

Chris is right. He's always right. Mila had been sixteen when he fled from Russia, her eyes young and bright, cheeks rounded with innocence. Now, with her cheekbones high and defined, framed by the fringes of shoulder length, fiery red hair, Viktor sees just how much had changed without him. It’s visible proof that life had moved on without him, and for some reason, it stabs at Viktor’s heart with melancholy and nostalgia. He longs for the days when she was just a few inches shorter when she would tease him and prod at him to sneak her into bars. 

For the first time, he thinks about how Mila must’ve felt when someone she had once called ‘brother’ ran off to Detroit with no explanation.

Swallowing, Viktor stands up. “Fine,” says he.

He sends one last reassuring glance toward Yuuri. He would sort this out, not only for Mila’s sake but for Yuuri’s as well. It is going to be a good night, Viktor’s sure of it, but first, he has to ease the tension. It’s only fair.

Apparently, Mila is already on the case. He knows this when his coat collar gets tugged on, dragging him several feet away from Yuuri. 

Viktor almost trips as he scrambles to right himself on his cane. “What the f-” he exclaims, turning to face his assailant. He’s cut off when his glare meets equally hostile, dark, blue eyes. Pausing for a moment, he examines Mila with malice, until it lessens into a trembling fear. 

She's the first one to speak, all hard edges and rough undertones. “Where the fuck have you been, Viktor?” she spits out the curse with venom on her tongue, but Viktor sees the worry in her gaze. He wills himself to stop shaking. 

“M-mila,” he stutters, fighting the urge to back away and sink into Yuuri's arms. “Hi….” 

The greeting is lame and sits heavily in the air between the two. All tension must be relieved. There's always going to a break. Mila’s comes in the form of tears, light droplets that fall down her perfectly made-up face. It takes Viktor by surprise. How much had he truly hurt Mila when he left? 

Enough to make her cry at the very sound of his voice, so it seems. 

“Two years,” she breathes. Her anger snaps and bends until her resolve crumbles before Viktor’s eyes. “Two years, Viktor.”

And he doesn't know what to do; he never has when it comes to people crying. So he just holds out his free arm. Mila steps into it and wraps herself around his torso. 

The party still moves around them. Thick air and flushed bodies push past him instead of dwelling on his presence again. It comforts Viktor. He squeezes, just the smallest amount. 

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, and he means it, from the very bottom of his heart. He had no idea that she was so torn up about his absence. It makes Viktor wonder. How many other people are hurting because of him? 

She shakes, just the smallest bit. In his arms, she’s small and vulnerable, just as she had been when she first started training under Yakov. She fits into his body and holds on for dear life as if he would disappear at any moment. 

Then it seems as if her fire returns when she detangles herself from his limbs and wipes her eyes. “Where have you been, asshole!” Mila says, staring at him with friendly, yet sharps eyes. “You haven't even called or emailed or anything!” 

Viktor sucks in a sheepish breath and starts to rub the back of his head. “Ah well…” he starts, the word dying on his tongue before he could spit them out. 

_ I haven't called because I didn't want a reminder. _

Just how he avoids the beach in the summer, not wanting to hear the full cries that remind him of lovely St. Petersburg, he had avoided the sound of their voices. Not only Mila’s, but everyone else's as well. He didn't want Yakov to scold him or for Georgi to tease him; it would have reminded him too much of the ice he wasn't allowed to skate upon. 

Now, he finds his chest aching, clinging onto the sound of Mila’s voice as if it were the last thing he would ever hear. 

“I'm sorry,” he repeats, again, hoping she would be able to hear the sincerity in his voice. “It was just… hard at first… to be around everyone… and now…”

He trails off. He can't seem to find the words to describe what he's trying to tell her. 

But, somehow, intuitive, sharp Mila seems to understand. She nods. Then she goes in for another hug, squeezing hard enough the crush Viktor’s lungs. He wheezes and staggers backward, leaning onto his cane. “Shit, Mila-”

“Shut it, old man, I missed you,” she replies, giving one last bone-crushing squeeze. 

Backing out of it, she grabs his hand and drags him into a spacious living room. Viktor yelps in surprise. He shoots a concerned glance at Yuuri, who has apparently taken to Christophe. He smiles as he swirls his wine and laughs along with his newfound friend. 

That reassures Viktor. Yuuri will be alright. Hopefully. 

-

It's an hour and four shots later, and Viktor is feeling a pleasant buzz coursing through his veins. Mila had stolen him for a majority of the time, bringing him drinks and chatting his ear off about life back in Russia. 

So much has happened since his flight to America. Georgi and Anya have been broken up for five months, now. Lilia and Yakov were filing for divorce. The rink had been renovated completely from top to bottom. Mila had been talking to an Italian skater and plans to take her on a date next time they can meet up. She'd spoken of the Grand Prix, carefully edging around the topic of Yuri Plitzetski as she told him about the competition. 

Then, somehow, the topic turns to Viktor’s very sparse love life. 

“So,” Mila asks, stirring her fruity drink with a straw. “Who’s that man that you walked in with?”

Viktor, who had long since relaxed due to the alcohol and Mila’s welcoming presence, twitches his lips into a wide smile. “His name’s Yuuri!” he exclaims, loud over the noise of the party. 

“Oh,” she says with an amused edge to her voice. “Is he your boyfriend? Husband?” 

For some reason, the word “husband” fills his face with fire. His eyes descend to the floor. “Oh god, no. I don't even...” He pauses. 

Then he whips his head behind him to see if he could spot Yuuri in the kitchen from his place on the couch. Yuuri’s not there. Yuuri’s disappeared. Viktor forgot Yuuri, a man with seemingly crippling anxiety at a crowded party.

“Where is Yuuri?!” he says, half to himself. 

It's official, Viktor is the worst friend ever. He abruptly gets up, almost falling back down when his vision swims for a moment. “Mila, d’you know where Chris is?” he asks, a panicked edge to his voice. 

Tilting her head in curiosity, she replies, “I last saw him in the kitchen with Chris.”

His turns back around frantically. Sure enough, Christophe is behind the tabletop island, pouring himself a drink and chatting idly with a young man Viktor doesn't recognize. Without Yuuri.

“Chris,” he says breathlessly. “Where’d Yuuri go?” 

He's breathing heavily, panting almost. His heart beats furiously in his chest. He needs to find Yuuri. He needs to. 

“Yuuri?” says Chris, a tad bit too loud. He shoots a bashful glance at the unfamiliar man and breaks into a smirk. “He’s on the balcony. He said he needed some air.”

Viktor’s heart drops to his stomach. 

“Oh God…” he remarks to himself, frowning deeply. “Is he okay? Did he look okay? Was he uncomfortable or-”

Chris, obviously inebriated, cut him off with a laugh. “Viktor. He’s waiting for you for a reason…” He trails off and bursts into giggles along with the unfamiliar man. “It s’almost midnight.” 

Chris winks. Viktor stands there for a moment until his jaw drops with realization.

_ He’s waiting for you for a reason… _

_ It’s almost midnight… _

On New Year's Eve. 

Yuuri Katsuki wants to kiss him.

“Oh,” he whispers softly.

Chris hands him the drink he’d been making, shaking with giggles. “Here,  _ mon cheri _ . Liquid courage. You’re gonna need it…”

Taking it in hand, he looks into the orange-ish liquid and sees his eyes staring back at him. He blinks once, huffing out a breath.

Yuuri Katsuki wants to kiss him.

Yuuri Katsuki whose laughter sounds like bells, who’s managed to bring him out of his very thick shell. Yuuri Katsuki the man who makes the fire in his belly travel all the way up to his neck and cheeks…

… wants to kiss him.

And Viktor wants to kiss him back.

“Thank you, Chris,” he says, short as he turns on his heel and starts to push back through the crowd again. He drains his cup as he goes along.

Sure enough, Yuuri is sitting outside, leaning on the edge of Christophe’s balcony with a red plastic cup raised to his lips and someone’s tie (Certainly not his own, Yuuri would never own something so unfashionable.) wrapped around his head. With a deep breath, Viktor throws his head back and downs the rest of his drink. 

He opens the glass door and up to the edge of the balcony, settling himself next to Yuuri. 

“Hey,” Viktor says, just barely above a whisper.

Yuuri turns his head and runs glassy eyes down Viktor’s body. “Hi,” he responds with a loopy smile.

It’s Viktor’s turn to grin back at him. “Are you enjoying yourself?” 

The blush that spreads across Yuuri’s cheeks is the same light pink they used on fresco paintings during the Renaissance, Viktor’s sure of it. He’s never seen a more dazzling juxtaposition; the stunning dark brown of his hair, the light dusting of rosy pink on his cheeks, the constant tinge of light brown in his skin that contrasts so nicely with Viktor’s pale complexion, the russet brown of his thin irises surrounded by inky black, blown out pupils. Viktor wants to remember Yuuri’s face in that moment forever; he wants it to be the last thing he keeps in his mind when old age starts to dull his senses. 

“Yeah,” Yuuri murmurs, his voice small enough to be carried away by the wind. Had Viktor not been standing so close, he wouldn’t have heard. 

The alcohol in his blood buzzes under his fingertips. He’s craving Yuuri’s touch, craving it like he was starved of it. A mixture of vodka and infatuation aids his brain in making the executive decision to bring his arm around Yuuri’s waist. He notices the shiver that runs down Yuuri’s spine and decides this is a good reaction.

“Yuuri, you’re so beautiful,” Viktor blurts out. “Did you know that?”

Yuuri’s entire body shifts toward him, shaking with laughter. “Me? Beautiful? I think you’re wrong,” he giggles, wrapping both of his hands around Viktor’s neck.

Viktor raises his eyes to the night sky, letting a genuine smile spread across his face. “I think... That you... Are very wrong...I think that when Monet was making his paintings that he was blessed with a future vision of you and then he painted all those wonderful paintings.”

Well, that wasn’t as smooth as he thought it would sound, but he hopes Yuuri gets the point. He squeezes his hand on Yuuri’s hip.

“Well… I think that I am a human garbage can and you are the crossbreed of an angel and a model,” Yuuri explains, leaning closer so that their chests are pressed snug against each other. 

Viktor laughs. “Untrue.”

Yuuri sways in Viktor’s grip, almost losing his footing. “I’m like… So gay for you.”

“Yuuri, you make me thank God I was born gay,” Viktor replies almost immediately. “When I first saw you, I thought, ‘That is the most beautiful, soft man I’ve ever seen.”

“Soft?”

“Yeah… Your cheeks are round n’ beautiful.”

They’re so close now; close enough so that he can feel the fuzz of Yuuri’s sweater rub against his exposed midriff. The air they breathe is shared between the both of them, tasting slightly of alcohol and city smog. Viktor lets his eyelids fall low over his eyes, casting his gaze on Yuuri with glossed over, shining pupils. His free hand moves to Yuuri’s rose-colored cheek and thumbs over it.

“Yuuri,” he whispers, “I’m gonna kiss you if that’s alright with you.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen for a short second but melt when Viktor flashes him a reassuring smile. 

“Okay,” Yuuri breathes. 

Both of them stand there, just letting the wind run through their hair. The seconds tick by and Viktor’s still staring at Yuuri’s lips, but doing nothing to satisfy the burn in his stomach.

Full of surprises, as always, Yuuri takes his one hands and finds Viktor's in a quick, jerking motion. He guides Viktor’s shaking fingers to a spot just left of the center of his chest and presses it there. Beneath Viktor’s touch, Yuuri’s pulse beats away like a hummingbird’s wings. 

“My fucking heart’s gonna beat out of my chest,” Yuuri informs, eyes blown out wide. “I’ve never even kissed anyone before.”

Viktor lets himself feel the beat of Yuuri’s heart. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs, fluttering his eyes closed. “Just relax, my Yuuri. I’ve got you.”

He leans forward; feels Yuuri do the same. They meet in the halfway space where their breath had been tangling, Viktor’s lips connecting to Yuuri’s with a downward swoop of his head.

Viktor’s relishes the feeling; soaks in the push and pull of Yuuri’s lips against his own. The kiss itself is sweet and chaste in nature, and a tad bit messy. Viktor had forgotten to tilt his head to the side and thus the tip of his nose presses flush to Yuuri’s. In the struggle to reposition himself while still kissing Yuuri, an odd dribble of saliva slips from the corner of his mouth.

But they manage to get comfortable with each other. It feels utterly blissful, the two of them in perfect rhythm with each other. Yuuri’s mouth opens, daring to prod at Viktor’s closed lips with his tongue. Viktor smiles into the kiss and obliges, parting his lips and letting out a shuddering breath through his nose. His hand goes from Yuuri’s chest to the dark brown of his hair in a desperate attempt to somehow get closer.

Viktor smiles as he hears a crowd of people counting down inside the apartment. The seconds tick by but they make no attempt to pull apart. 

“Five!”

Yuuri’s fingers hook onto Viktor’s belt loops. 

“Four!”

A small sound somewhere between and moan and gasp escapes Viktor. 

“Three!” 

Yuuri angles his head to the side. 

“Two!” 

Viktor flutters his eyes open and breaks the kiss. 

“One!”

Fireworks start to fly through the air. 

Yuuri draws himself back, detaching their lips with a wet pop. The two stare straight into each other’s eyes and Viktor almost feels like he's drowning in a sea of brown. 

And Yuuri starts to laugh. His nose screws up and his eyes squeeze shut, breathless giggles running through his body. Like a plague of joy, Viktor leans into Yuuri’s grasp with chuckles reverberating in his chest. 

“Oh my god, wow,” Yuuri manages to get out between his breathless laughter. “That was so…”

Viktor, as eloquent as ever, supplies, “... Good.”

And Yuuri, with the shine of a thousand stars in his love-struck gaze, adds on, “... Yeah.”

The party in Christophe’s apartment continues on without them. A wave of pops and whoops and hollers fade to the back of Viktor’s mind, all his attention focused on the feeling of Yuuri’s fingers brushing over the hair on the nape of his neck. 

Yuuri’s leans forward until his cheek is smushed against Viktor’s chest. With a heavy breath, his begins to card his fingers through Viktor’s silvery strands. He lets out a content sigh. 

“Why did you cut your hair?” he asks through the slur on his tongue. 

And it's as if the peace has shattered; the moment completely ruined for Viktor. He gasps, affronted by Yuuri’s brashness and the way his words mirrored those of reporters two years ago. 

The answer is obvious. Viktor had wanted to hide. His long, flowing locks were a trademark of his figure skating days. Combing through it after his accident became a task and the upkeep seemed to be too much so he had just chopped it off with kitchen scissors in his lonely apartment.

Viktor doesn’t quite understand why he pulls away from Yuuri. All he knows is that Yuuri’s words sting like ice against a fresh wound. 

So he backs away, but Yuuri continues on.

“I mean, it’s still pretty, but wow, it was really cool back then, ya know?” Yuuri rambles. “You looked so majestic in that video. You look good in blue… but I was so worried in the end, I thought you were dead. That was scary. But you’re alive now, and that’s all that matters.”

_ Yuuri’s just like the rest _ . His mind hisses poison and he believes it.

_ Yuuri just wants the old you. He’s no different from everyone else. And you hurt him, the same way you hurt Mila and Christophe and Yuri and Yakov…. You hurt him because of your selfish decisions. He likes you better with long hair. **He likes you better with long hair.**   _

Yuuri’s still rambling, his sentences connect together like a rolling hill, never stopping until Viktor turns on his heel with fresh tears stinging his eyes. It’s almost comical, how fast the air had gone from warm and inviting to this cold that attacks Viktor’s  lungs.

“I have to go,” he says, visibly panicked, before turning sharply back into the crowded party.

He needs to get out. He has to leave. He cannot stay amid all these people so obsessed with his past and his accident when he, himself, is still struggling to get over it. It’s not fair to Viktor. It’s not fair to be grilled about his feelings when all he wants to do is just make small talk. He’s angry and sick and tired and so full of self-loathing...

Even Viktor’s Yuuri, the one that had inspired him to reach out more, seems to have an alternative motive behind a relationship with him.

Swift as he can, Viktor finds his coat and shrugs it on. He locates a quiet cabinet in Chris’ kitchen and puts thirty dollars worth of cash there before texting the man himself.

 

**There’s thirty dollars in the cabinet above the sink. Give it to Yuuri for a taxi or something before he leaves. I have to go. Thank you for inviting me.**

 

The words are quick and concise. Within the minute, Viktor gets a text back.

 

Christophe

**Okay i’ll let him know…**

 

And Viktor leaves in a hurry, fighting through the crowds who smell so thickly of alcohol that his lip quivers in disgust. The air chokes Viktor more and more every second until he finally locates the front door.

He calls a taxi. In three minutes he’s being whisked away from the booming party and he almost regrets it. Viktor almost tells the driver to stop so he could get out, run back to Yuuri and explain why he is hurting so much. By God, he wants to, but something in him keeps him grounded to the seats of the cab the entire ride home.

-

Viktor stumbles into his apartment, tear tracks apparent on his ashen face. The apartment is completely dark, only streaks of pale moonlight to illuminate his path. He makes no move to flip the lamp on near his bed. His body, strangled by black jeans and pink lace, flops onto his bedroom floor without a second thought. It's almost as if he's on autopilot, letting his grief and his fear consume his movements. 

And Viktor lies back. He lets himself feel all the pain and emptiness he’d been bottling up inside and shoving to the side. The tears start again, developing into hard, wrenching sobs that shake every cell, every nerve ending. 

And his head. It's killing him. With every blink, he feels a throb of pain pound against his skull. Thoughts race faster than he can handle and bombard him until he thinks nothing but  _ skating yuuri skating yuuri skating _ . He shoots upward, back onto his feet so fast that his vision blurs. A deadly of mixture of alcohol and emotional distress makes his tears feels hot and burning against his skin. 

In his rage and his sadness and loneliness, Viktor throws his closet open and begins to tear at his rows of button ups until there’s a space filled with nothing but ghosts of his icy past.

He rips the first three costumes from their hangers, letting his fingers tear through the intricate seams and rip them. He almost lets himself stop when he remembers the delicate touches that had first sewn those costumes together, the small woman who ran the tailor shop that Viktor had so treasured. But he doesn’t care. Her art had only caused him pain, restricted his body into a tight, lithe form just so it could fit over his chest. 

Then his hands, as vicious a claws reach dark blue lace, painted reddish brown with the stain of his own blood. Viktor’s face screws up and he can almost feel the growl that escapes his lips. A mixed cocktail of grief and sadness wells up inside him and releases through a downward swipe of his arm, the lace tearing with a satisfying  _ rrrip _ echoing through the empty air. An emotionless smirk spreads across his face as he destroys that ghost of his past until all that’s left of it is a pile of blue scraps. It’s beauty and magnificence is gone now, leaving it only as Viktor sees it; the fabric that had torn his life apart.

When that’s done, there’s nothing left except his skates.

Those glorious blades, they rest at the bottom of Viktor’s closet as a painful and ever-present reminder of his failure to live out the promise of their golden sheen. They haven’t seen the light of day in over a year, yet they gleam so brightly in the melancholy moonlight, almost as if they had never been off the ice in the first place. Viktor runs his burning eyes over them again and again, willing them to disappear and melt down just as he had done.

But still, they stand, leaning against the wall, washed in pride, as Viktor crumbles.

His tears start to roll down again with a stark realization; this isn’t Yuuri’s fault.

Sure Yuuri Katsuki’s comments had sent him reeling; he had echoed reporters and fans Viktor had long ago blocked out. And after the first blow, he just kept going and going. It was only natural for Viktor to retreat because that’s what he's always done.

But Viktor’s reaction is the result of repeated offenses, the product of his bottling up of his own emotions. He’d always hid his feelings behind a pristine, white smile and when it became too hard to do that, he had retreated away to America.

Now, he’s facing those feelings again and all he wants to do is cower and run.

_ It's not fair. It's not fair. It's not fair.  _ His mind is racing. Grieving. Possibly overreacting. And all he want is to see Yuuri again. He wants to sink into Yuuri; to tell him every last thought and insecurity, but there's a tiny part of him still echoing his initial reaction. 

What a fool he had been to think he was ready to come out of isolation. 

Viktor continues crying, now a crumpled pile on the floor. He mourns his career, his life, his opportunities passed up, and his mistakes made. When he’s done, he crawls under the sheets of his lonely, cold bed and falls into a dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls lemme know what you think. if you've been reading this from the beginning ur a brave soul and i love u. thanks.
> 
> up next, within the upcoming weeks, will be interludes!! aka me explaining the main trio's tragic backstories!! nice!!


	6. interlude - yuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri meets the ghost of Viktor Nikiforov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya folks. it hasn't been that long since u last heard from me because a. i'm almost done with school and i have a lot of time to write and b. these interludes are short 1k introspective pieces which take me about .02 seconds to write and a day to edit. you should have the viktor and yuuri parts by the end of the week before i start back on our main plot.
> 
> i hope u enjoy!!
> 
> tw for a brief, implied mention of menstruation and cramps, and a minor character death reference

**November 10, 2016**

-

The flight to Detroit is seemingly endless. Yuri Plitzetski leans against the window as his plane moves silently under the cover of night. He watches as the clouds pass by and the sea churns under him. His head begins to pound. He bites his tongue.

Ripping his headphones out of his ears, Yuri lets out the slightest of groans. His thoughts are rushing, rushing, rushing.

They’ve exiled him, the same way they’d exiled Viktor after his injury. Except, Yuri isn't injured, not even in the slightest; he won't admit it, but his heart is aching.

He aches for his grandfather, Nikolai Plitzetski. He misses his quiet, yet sturdy presence, like an aged oak tree. Where Yuri was quick to submit to failure, his grandfather urged him to never give up, never give in.

But he's gone now, struck down by a heart attack at the age of seventy-three and all Yuri can think is _too young. Too young._ He lived a long, fulfilling life, made comfortable in his last years due to the influx of money brought in by Yuri’s success, but it still wasn't enough. Yuri needs him in all his strength, but…

He's gone.

He's been gone, for three whole months.

Yuri almost groans in frustration at the tear that slips down his cheek. It doesn't help that his cramps feel as if they're ripping through his lower body. He's tired, aching, and about to emit a full body scream of his Advil doesn't kick in soon.

The man next to him shoots Yuri a judgemental gaze. Yuri mirrors it back to him, lowering his brow over sharp green eyes. Averting his glance, the man stares back down at his phone. Yuri relaxes his face and puffs a strand of hair from his face.

Just a couple more hours. That's it. Then he’ll be in Detroit for the remainder of the season. Yakov says it's to get him to relax, to take a break for a few months, but Yuri knows better. They're exiling him.

His gut churns at the thought of just _who_ he’s going to stay with over this break.

Yuri shoves his headphones back in.

Viktor Nikiforov.

There are three things every Russian skater knows about Viktor Nikiforov.

  1. He is the best of the best. No one will ever rival his grandeur, his presence, or his success.
  2. He is Yakov’s favorite. This is no dispute about that. He still calls every Friday in hopes that Viktor will hold a conversation that lasts longer than a minute. It never happens. Even so, Yakov persists.
  3. He is dead.



Viktor Nikiforov is dead. The flighty, loud-mouthed, cocky, downright _extra_ man with the long, flowing hair and the smile that could pierce one's soul, is dead. The Viktor that lives on in Yuri’s memories skates circles around him and teases him about his height, almost like a big brother. Yuri has no idea who he is now; the type of man he's turned himself into.  

A small part of him is excited. Yuri won't ever say this out loud, but he’s missed Viktor. He's missed Viktor in a way that makes his chest tight, longing for the days where he had been a figure of strength and resilience for Yuri.

But Yuri also knows of the hidden side of Viktor Nikiforov.

It's the side that Yuri could only see if he knocked on Viktor’s door at five am on a Monday morning to drag his to practice. Viktor would smile a well-practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes and invite Yuri in. Rambling as he made them coffee, he would go through his actions as if the exhaustion in his eyes didn't shine through when the sun hit his face in a particular way.

Truth be told, Viktor had always been sad. Everyone had known, even before the accident. No amount of concealer could cover up the shades of violet beneath his eyes. He had been becoming dull for months before that. His fall had been the final nail in the coffin.

Ever since that day, no one has heard much of anything from him. He's gone silent on both Instagram and Twitter, with only the occasional like and retweet to remind everyone that he's still alive. On his Friday calls with Yakov, he speaks in short spouts of biting Russian; his anger can be heard through the phone.

Yuri imagines that perhaps he'd made a new life in Detroit. Maybe he's back in school, getting the diploma in history he always used to talk about. He might be working. Yuri can picture Viktor, hair combed into a neat, tight bun at the back of his head, briefcase in hand, Makkachin at his side.

The rest of the flight, Yuri distracts himself by thinking about Viktor, avoiding his ever darkening thoughts.

-

The man holding a sign with Yuri’s name written in Cyrillic can't be Viktor. He's sure of it.

Yuri blinks, rubs his eyes, and tugs on his cheetah print suitcase. There’s no way in hell that’s him. The man has silvery hair that ends that ends short and close to his neck. The rest falls into a slight undercut, a flowing, longer puff of strands covering his left eye.

“Yura!” the man exclaims aloud, a wide, heart-shaped smile covering his face.

There's no doubt about it. The man is none other than Viktor Nikiforov. No one else has that same smile, that distinct of a voice.

“Viktor?” asks Yuri.

He steps forward until he's face to face with Viktor, squinting his eyes as he leans closer. Of course, it's Viktor. He smells like that honey and vanilla. He wears that stupid, expensive Burberry coat. He speaks as if the sun were infused in his voice. These are all qualities of the Viktor Yuri knows in his head.

Yet his hair is short. It is nothing like the wintery tresses that Yuri remembers. It makes Viktor look harder. His face clenches tight, made up of cutting angles and unforgiving blue eyes.

Another fact that contrasts with Yuri’s picture of Viktor Nikiforov is his distance. Viktor is a tactile person. That is just how it is, how it always has been. He hugs everyone as a greeting, ruffles their hair, leaves slobbering kisses on their cheeks.

This version of Viktor just gives a rather small wave. “ _Hello, Yuri,”_ he greets in Russian. “ _How was your flight?”_

 _“Great,”_ Yuri replies, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “ _What happened to all your hair?”_

Yuri isn't one to mince words. If he wants to know something or wants someone else to know something, he will voice his concern. He pretends not to see how Viktor winces and presses his question with a raise of his eyebrow.

“ _I needed a change,”_ says Viktor. The answer is honest, Yuri can tell that much, but it also avoids the full truth of the matter.

Yuri rolls his eyes and begins to walk toward the exit. “ _Let's go.”_

 _It’s going to be a very interesting couple of months,_ he thinks, _living with the ghost of Viktor Nikiforov._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u so much for reading!!!


	7. i'm sorry

Hello readers, this is your dear author here checking in and saying that, unfortunately, I cannot complete this story.

 

For a number of reasons really.

 

1\. It's not my story to tell.

 

In the beginning, I had a beta who is disabled. I had people encouraging me to write this because they wanted to see themselves represented. I had a lot going for me. But as I progressed, I lost my beta and I lost my drive to write this. It feels bad, almost like I'm using the plight of disabled people to make my story more angsty and I dunno I just can't bring myself to write this cause I have no idea how it would feel. I'm able bodied. I experience none of the things that I need to know about in order to accurately describe Viktor's character.

 

2\. It's depressing

 

Writing this does make me sad. It puts me in a terrible mindset and draws me out of my happy moods. It has become more of a burden and it sucks cause I really wanted to complete this but, to be honest with you guys, if I were to continue writing this, it would just be uninspired and not as good as the other chapters (which are already questionable in how good they are). I've found out the hard way that my stories don't have to be heart-wrenchingly painful and cold to be good. I want to write something warm and funny and fluffy. I need to write something like that.

 

 But I do owe it to you faithful readers to give you somewhat of a resolution to the awful place I left off on so here how I would have continued if I were to actually finish it.

After the breakdown, Viktor would become more cold and distant. Yuuri would notice. They would have had a heart to heart conversation in which Yuuri realizes why he fucked up and Viktor realizes why he should open up. Viktor says something cheesy like, "let's do it right, this time around" referring to their relationship, lean into a kiss in which they're both sober and full of love and Emotion. End Pt. 1.

Pt. 2 would revolve more around Yuri P. Viktor picks up on how Yuri's been acting, sees his past self in Yuri's moods and emotions, and decides to put an end to it. He starts by making a call to Yakov out of the blue and more feelings are spilled. Viktor is starting to come out of his defensive shell but doesn't notice it. Meanwhile, Yuuri K and Viktor are taking it slow, romancing each other, and not hiding things from each other anymore. Yuuri suggests, one day, that they take Yuri back on the ice to which Viktor responds negatively because he hasn't even stepped foot in an ice skating rink since The Incident. Through much persuading, they finally get both of them to the rink. Cue emotional responses from both Yuri and Viktor. More character development, blah, blah, blah. Yuri decides he wants to go back to Russia and compete again and Viktor decides he wants to go back too. Long emotional talks with Yuuri and Yakov solidify his determination to reconnect with his Tragic Past. More cute dates, fill in scenes. Then, as the trio are getting their stuff together to move to Russia, Viktor goes into his closet. He comes out with a golden pair of skates and gives them Yuri, proclaiming "I have no use for these anymore. Take them. Make me proud." Yuri cries. It ends with the trio stepping off the plane, breathing in the cold Russian air as the sun is rising. The prologue would be Yuri prepping for his first competition. There would be playful banter between the trio and Viktor would be happy and smiling. Viktor reflects, in the passing moments, on how much his life has changed because of Yuuri, how it still has stayed the same in some aspects. The ending line would go something like this:

 

"Yuri emerges from the gate. He spreads his arms behind him and tips his chin toward the ceiling as he skates. There's a chant of his name on the lips of the crowd. He smiles brightly and looks down to glimmering, golden blades on his feet.

From the stands, Viktor tightens his grip of Yuuri's hand. He breathes in the smell of the ice, absorbs the roaring cheers, but his heart is no longer full of longing. He has everything he needs, right by his side."

 

Thank you for your support. Thank you for reading. I am truly sorry for not having the ability to bring this idea to life, but I hope you enjoyed what you read anyway. And maybe if you don't hate me, you'll consider keeping an eye out for a newer, happier au, based on this [thread](https://twitter.com/ugliegay/status/872248487194361857) I made  

 

Thank you for understanding.

Your unreliable author,

Theta


End file.
